Brought to you by Winterborn
Rise of the Blood Royal
VOLUME 3
of
The Destinies of Blood and Stone
Robert Newcomb

FOREWORD
THIS SAGA’S KNOWN WORLD IS COMPRISED OF FOUR independent nations. To the west lie
Rustannica and Shashida. Their great land masses easily dwarf Eutracia and Parthalon, the
nations lying to the east. Because of dark magic long since banned by its warring practitioners,
the Tolenka mountain range that separates Eutracia and Parthalon from Rustannica and
Shashida is insurmountable by those living on either side of its craggy peaks. An azure pass
existed briefly that allowed travel through the mountain range, but it was destroyed by
Rustannican mystics when they learned that the secret to its use had been granted to the
Eutracian prince.
For aeons, a struggle called the War of Attrition has raged between Rustannica and Shashida.
Separating these two nations is an area called the Borderlands. Created and controlled by
Rustannican mystics, the Borderlands can be morphed at will to create various types of
life-threatening terrain, thereby helping to protect Rustannica from invasion by her Shashidan
enemies to the south.
The War of Attrition is fought by two opposing groups of craft practitioners. In Rustannica, the
ruling body of mystics is called the Pon Q’tar. The Pon Q’tar members are zealously devoted to
the craft’s dark side, also known as the Vagaries.
The Shashidan mystics are called the Chikara Inkai. They are devoted to magic’s more
compassionate side, called the Vigors. Although they live under nearly constant attack by the Pon
Q’tar, the Inkai choose to fight a largely defensive war, for fear of destroying the side of the craft
practiced by their enemies. Unlike the Pon Q’tar, the Inkai believe that doing so would collapse
both sides of magic and plunge the world into eternal darkness. As in Eutracia and Parthalon, in
Rustannica and Shashida it is the presence of “endowed blood” in one’s being that allows one to
use magic and determines his or her relative power in the craft.
The Emperor of Rustannica, who rules over the Pon Q’tar, the Priory of Virtue, and the Imperial
Order, possesses the most strongly endowed blood in Rustannican history. The raw power he
commands over the craft dwarfs even that of all the Pon Q’tar clerics combined.
After centuries of struggle, the less sophisticated nations of Eutracia and Parthalon have
seemingly found victory in their fight to overcome the influence of the Vagaries. Dangerous
enemies who would have seen the Vigors stamped out forever—some of whom were guided
from afar by the Pon Q’tar—have been defeated by Prince Tristan of Eutracia and his twin sister,
Princess Shailiha. The Eutracian prince rules over the Conclave of the Vigors, a group of fighters
and mystics who have been specially chosen for their unique abilities.
Like the Emperor of Rustannica, the Eutracian Prince and Princess possess highly endowed
blood. They are the prophesied Jin’Sai and Jin’Saiou, and it is their mission to unleash their power
and bring a just and lasting resolution to the War of Attrition, while ensuring that both sides of the
craft continue to coexist peacefully.
But to do this, they must cross the Tolenka Mountains—a seemingly impossible task now that the
azure pass is no more. Fulfilling their destinies appears more hopeless than ever. And the
Rustannican government, its treasury having been bled nearly white from untold generations of
offensive war and costly mass spectacle, is tottering on the brink of a collapse that even the Pon
Q’tar and its emperor might not be able to stave off.
ROBERT NEWCOMB



CHAPTER I

Sometimes the way a man dies is more important than how he lived.
—VESPASIAN AUGUSTUS I, EMPEROR OF RUSTANNICA

HE WAS BORN INTO A WORLD FILLED WITH TREACHERY, dark magic, and unresolved war.
His coming had been foretold, and his birth was a joyous event among the few mystics
considered worthy to witness it. As his mother gave him life, she and her newborn were
surrounded by an azure glow. Soon the glow faded to reveal the crying child for whom the
hopeful Pon Q’tar clerics had waited so long. They named him Vespasian Augustus I, and it was
he who was destined to lead his country to final victory over Shashida, the southern nation that
had for so long threatened Rustannica’s way of life.
Immediately after the child’s birth, his mother and father were taken away. Five veiled wet nurses
would take turns suckling him, ensuring that no singular attachment would form in his heart and
perhaps mar his later devotion to the clerics who would shape his life. The child was everything;
the woman who birthed him and the man who sired him were little more than living suppliers of
unique bloodlines. The boy would be raised alone by the mysterious clerics. One day those same
mystics would grant him rule over their nation.
The Pon Q’tar had explained the boy’s sudden appearance and amazing blood quality to the
citizens of Rustannica as wondrous gifts of magic that were to be welcomed, rather than omens
to be feared. The citizens quickly took Vespasian to their bosom, and as he matured they
hungered constantly for news of his upbringing.
He had been born thirty-two Seasons of New Life ago. Today, more of Rustannica’s enemies
would die.
Small numbers of captured Shashidan soldiers were usually killed outright on the battlefield by the
Rustannican Imperial Order. But if the captives were numerous, they were brought in chains to
Ellistium, Rustannica’s capital city. There, most would be forced into slavery; the remainder would
be condemned to fight one another to the death in the “games,” a lavish spectacle staged in
Ellistium’s great coliseum.
Vespasian raised one hand and held it out to Persephone, his empress. Smiling, she placed her
palm atop his, and they strode out into the morning sunshine.
As the couple entered the vast coliseum, they were showered with colorful rose petals gleefully
tossed down by Persephone’s many handmaidens seated in the stands above. At the sight of
their revered rulers, the crowd rose to their feet and roared.
The great coliseum was the largest structure in Ellistium. Its curved stone walls, four tiers high,
were covered with colorful mosaic murals depicting a variety of fearsome beasts. On each tier,
ivory statues of previous emperors stood in huge carved niches.
The coliseum could accommodate one hundred thousand spectators. As he surveyed the quickly
filling stands, Vespasian knew that no seats would go unsold today. These were the first games in
nearly three months, and the populace was eager for blood. The mighty Twenty-third Legion had
recently been ordered home after a successful campaign, and many Shashidan soldiers had
been taken prisoner—sufficient numbers for a full fifteen days of games.
Open arches built into the four tiers allowed light and air into the passageways by which the eager
mob entered. Colorful banners fluttered atop the curving walls. Two great red canopies, unfurled
from opposite sidewalls, extended nearly to the center of the arena. Their far sides were attached
to towering solid turquoise columns that had been sunk into the arena floor. Each column was
topped with a gold statue of Vespasian dressed in full military regalia.
The morning sun glinted off the statues and filtered through the red canopies, giving the
sand-covered floor the appearance of having already been bloodied and whetting the crowd’s
appetite for the spectacles that would soon unfold.
The emperor looked from one end of the arena to the other. Massive iron gates stood in the walls
at each end, their twin doors guarded by stern Imperial Order centurions. Over each portal was
inlaid an elaborate inscription in pure silver. Above the northern doors the inscription read: The
Gates of Life. The southern one read: The Gates of Death.
The emperor’s private box was a lavish affair of elegant blue marble furnished with two ivory
thrones, along with simpler chairs reserved for privileged advisors and guests. In each of the four
corners, banners of purple and gold fluttered from onyx columns, and ivy vines graced the walls.
A purple silk canopy lay stretched between the four columns over the box, shielding the emperor
and his entourage from the hot sun. In one corner stood the nervous Games Master, the man
responsible for the smooth management of the upcoming spectacle.
The emperor’s box was flanked by two other elaborate boxes. The one to the left was reserved for
the Imperial Order’s eighty legion tribunes, though only those few not afield in the seemingly
never-ending war against Shashida would attend the games.
The box to the right was reserved for the Priory of Virtue. All twenty seats were carved from solid
ivory and lined with red velvet cushions.
The moment the emperor and empress sat down, Shashidan slaves appeared with a multitude of
delicacies: wine, sweetmeats, shellfish, grilled breasts of game birds, and boiled eggs; piles of
cakes, pastries, and tarts, all sweetened with honey.
As Persephone settled into her chair, the crowd continued to roar and the last of the rose petals
fluttered down. She casually employed the craft, causing a golden wine goblet to rise from a tray
and float toward her. As she took it in her hand, she turned to regard the man she loved more than
life.
Although her marriage to Vespasian had been arranged by the Pon Q’tar, Persephone had been
smitten at first sight. To her initial dismay, the same had not been true of her intended; but with
time, he had come to return her love. The only shadow over their marriage was her failure to
produce an heir. Repeated physical examinations of the empress by the Pon Q’tar clerics had
produced no answers. Even their cleverly concocted fertility potions and specially designed
enchantments had not helped her to conceive.
Persephone knew that she had been chosen only because of the unusually high quality of her
blood. The Pon Q’tar had searched long and hard for a young girl of such highly endowed blood.
Persephone had been forcibly taken from her parents at the age of three and, like Vespasian, had
been raised and trained by the Pon Q’tar clerics. Her instruction in the arts of magic, politics, and
war had rivaled Vespasian’s in every way—but her specialty was palace intrigue, and some
confidants dared to whisper that no one outshone her in that area, not even her husband.
She smiled as she regarded Vespasian beside her. He looked splendid in his dress uniform. Dark
blue leather armor adorned with elaborate silver filigree covered a shiny black tunic. He wore dark
blue filigreed leather greaves and gauntlets and black sandals. His purple and gold cape was
attached to his armor at each shoulder, and a golden dress sword in a filigreed scabbard hung at
one hip. In celebration of the games, the traditional crown of laurel leaves fashioned from solid
gold sat atop his blond curls.
As she regarded him, Vespasian turned to look at his wife. His dark blue eyes met her light blue
ones, and he reached to stroke a strand of her long blond hair. She was wearing a gown of vibrant
red silk. Golden snakes wound around her upper arms, and matching earrings hung from her
lobes. She looked radiant. Leaning closer, Vespasian gave her a conspiratorial smile.
“I hope that you don’t mind attending the games today, my dear,” he whispered. “I fear that they
have become a way of life.”
Persephone smiled in return. “I enjoy the spectacles as much as anyone,” she whispered back.
“You know that. Besides, my place is with you. The palace is wild with rumors that there is to be
some form of entertainment today. I must say that I’m curious.”
Vespasian nodded. “Along with the usual lot of criminals and professional combatants, newly
captured Shashidan skeens will participate today. They were recently taken by the Twenty-third
Legion.”
“Did they give up any useful information?” Persephone asked.
Vespasian shook his head. “We heard little that we did not already know.”
As he looked back out over the massive crowd, Vespasian couldn’t help but be reminded of the
immense importance of class structure in Rustannican life. There were four distinct levels, and
one’s position in society was irrevocably determined at birth by the nature of his or her blood.
The “krithians,” those lucky few born with fully endowed blood that complete command over the
craft of magic, were protected by special laws and privileges, and considered to be the cream of
the Rustannican Empire. Below the krithians were those born with partially endowed blood. They
were known as “hematites,” or simply “partials.” They, too, were able to call on the craft, but their
gifts were limited to the craft’s organic side, such as herbmastery. The next class of citizens was
comprised of those with unendowed blood. Called “phrygians,” they were unable to summon the
craft in any form. The lowest class was the huge multitudes of slaves, also known as “skeens.”
By way of continual captures and new births, the slave population had grown so much in recent
years that it made up a full third of Rustannica’s population.
Regardless of age, gender, or blood type, all skeens were captured Shashidan soldiers, civilians,
or their descendants. Those not chosen to supply fodder for the games were sold at auction by
the government in Ellistium’s great forum on the first of each month. If they had once been magic
practitioners, the craft was immediately used to wipe their memories clean of the ability to call
upon their gifts, thus ensuring that they would never again present a threat to the empire.
As he surveyed the swelling crowd, Vespasian sat back in his throne, thinking. Most
Rustannicans believed that their nation’s strength lay in her vast legions and her treasury of gold.
But they were wrong. Rustannica’s real power lay in the continuing survival of left-leaning
endowed blood. That was the true ruling factor here, and nothing would ever change it.
Twelve more people entered the emperor’s private box. The seven men and five women greeted
Vespasian and Persephone warmly, then took nearby seats. These august mystics made up the
revered Pon Q’tar. Protected by time enchantments, each was scores of centuries old, and some
had even taken part in the ancient revolt against Shashida and the start of the War of Attrition.
Their many responsibilities included ongoing craft research, advising the emperor and empress,
and overseeing the day-to-day operations of the legions. Each cleric was dressed in a bright white
robe, its folds gracefully draping from the left shoulder to the right thigh. A deep burgundy border
ran all along the garment’s length, signifying its wearer’s lofty office.
Shortly after the Pon Q’tar arrived, the crowd quieted—a sign that the women of the Priory of
Virtue were filing into their box on Vespasian’s right. They wore diaphanous white gowns;
matching veils fell from simple gold circlets to cover their faces. No other jewelry adorned them,
and no badges or symbols of their sisterhood were evident. As they took their seats, the First
Mistress of the Priory, also known as the Femiculi, bowed to Vespasian. He bowed in return, and
the crowd quickly returned to its raucous ways.
Soon thirty of the imperial tribunes appeared. They were in full dress uniform, complete with gold
and red horsehair-combed helmets and blood-red capes. Each man saluted Vespasian by
thumping his closed fist against his golden breastplate, then quickly opening his palm and
extending his arm straight ahead. They then removed their helmets and took their seats.
By law, each tribune and several of the centurions serving under him had to be krithians trained in
the ways of magic as well as warfare. Groups of lesser mystics called Heretics of the Guild also
accompanied each legion, to offer additional strength and guidance in the craft.
Once his officers were in place, the First Tribune came to join Vespasian in his box. Lucius
Marius had been Vespasian’s closest friend since their earliest days when they took their military
training together. After Vespasian, Persephone, and the lead Pon Q’tar cleric, Lucius was the
highest ranking person in Rustannica. With a smile and a respectful nod for Vespasian, Lucius
placed his helmet on the floor and bent over Persephone’s hand to kiss it.
Persephone liked Lucius. Despite his reputation as a rake and a great lover of wine and gaiety,
Lucius was good company and a wise counselor. She returned his smile and handed him a
goblet of red wine.
At last, Gracchus Junius, the lead Pon Q’tar mystic, quietly rose from his chair and approached
the emperor, a worried expression on his aged face. Vespasian placed a hand on the mystic’s
shoulder.
“What bothers my old tutor?” he asked. “This is to be a happy day!”
Without answering, Gracchus produced a wax tablet diptych from the folds of his robe. The
diptych’s covers were made of solid gold held together by two jeweled rings.
Vespasian recognized the unique book immediately. It presence meant only one thing: The
Oraculum had word for him. If Gracchus was willing to present an Oraculum diptych to his
emperor in public, the news had to be of the greatest urgency.
Taking the book into his hands, Vespasian gave Persephone and Lucius a wary look. Persephone
pursed her lips; Lucius raised an eyebrow. Vespasian returned his gaze to his cleric.
“It has been some time since she has spoken,” he said quietly.
“Yes, Highness,” Gracchus said in his gravely voice. “And her newest pronouncements are not
reassuring.”
Vespasian looked at the book to make sure that Gracchus’ personal red wax signet seal was still
intact. “Is the news bad?” he asked.
Gracchus paused to look out over the restless crowd. In some areas, squabbles had broken out
over the best seats, and the widespread drunkenness and debauchery that usually accompanied
the games had begun sooner than usual.
“The news is distressing,” he said finally. “Perhaps you should start the games before reading the
diptych. The crowd becomes restless.”
Vespasian shook his head. “I will read it now. Let the mob wait a little longer.”
With a snap of his fingers, he called Gaius, the Games Master, to his side. Once a slave and
arena combatant himself, the grizzled old man had long ago lost one eye and several fingers to
the games before being given his freedom by one of Vespasian’s predecessors. Granting
freedom to a slave, criminal, or enemy of the empire who had fought well in the arena was rare,
and only the emperor could bestow such an honor. In his twelve years as Rustannica’s ruler,
Vespasian had never done so.
Now Vespasian looked up into the Games Master’s remaining brown eye. “Give them the bread,”
he ordered. “That should placate them for a while.”
“My liege,” the man answered with a small bow. He turned and quickly walked to one corner of the
box. There stood a series of tall golden staffs that could be easily seen from the arena. Mounted
on each staff was a three-sided gilded sign that could be swiveled to signal various commands to
ever-watchful centurions prowling the arena floor. Selecting one of the signs, Gaius presented
one of its faces to the arena floor.
At once the centurions started walking toward a group of male and female slaves performing
acrobatic tricks. Each wore nothing but a simple white loincloth and flowers in their hair. Their
oiled bodies glistened in the reddish light filtering through the canopies.
After getting their new orders from the centurions, the slaves disappeared through the Gates of
Life. They soon ran back out carrying huge baskets of freshly baked bread. As they tossed the
loaves into the stands, the crowd went wild. In honor of the spectators, Vespasian sometimes
ordered that thousands of such loaves, each branded with the letter V, be given away. Such royal
bread was rarely eaten. Instead it was taken home and displayed proudly as a personal gift from
the emperor. There it would remain in some domicile or shopkeeper’s window until it molded and
fell to dust. The loaves had become so revered that stealing one had recently been made a capital
crime. For most Ellistiumites, owning such a loaf of bread was as close as they would ever come
to touching royalty. In honor of highly special events, Vespasian sometimes enchanted the loaves,
ensuring that they would never spoil. Such was the case today.
With the crowd distracted for the moment, Vespasian opened the diptych and began reading the
beeswax pages. The elegant script had been deeply etched with a stylus. As always, Gracchus
had personally put the Oraculum’s verbal pronouncements in writing, and Vespasian recognized
the cleric’s unique hand. As he read, his anger rose. He snapped the diptych shut, then handed it
to Lucius. As the First Tribune read the pages, his expression mirrored Vespasian’s.
Persephone touched her husband on the arm. “What does it say?” she asked.
“The Jin’Sai lives,” Vespasian whispered. “Despite all our efforts, that son of a thousand fathers
escaped Crysenium and returned to Eutracia. Moreover, he now commands the gift of K’Shari. He
killed Xanthus, the being the Pon Q’tar created to lure him to our side of the world. That Vigors
bastard seems to have a thousand lives. Perhaps even worse, the Conclave now possesses
both the Scrolls of the Ancients and their indexes. I can see no end to the trouble this defeat will
cause.”
Lucius handed the diptych back to Vespasian, and the emperor angrily tossed it to the floor. “The
one blessing in all this is that we were able to kill the traitorous Envoys of Crysenium,” he
breathed. “But only time will tell how much Tristan was able to learn from them before he fled
back to his homeland. Now he is untouchable.”
Vespasian turned and glared angrily at Gracchus. “It was the Pon Q’tar’s plan to lure the Jin’Sai
here!” he growled. “In the end, not only did your idea fail, but we were forced to trick Serena into
killing herself and her child! In doing so, we lost the last of our Vagaries allies who shared
Tristan’s blood! The failure is yours!”
“We must accept our misfortune,” Gracchus answered. “Our sudden need to summon the
Borderlands was regrettable, but no one could have foreseen it. It had to be done because of the
Shashidan cohorts that were approaching. I admit that the timing could not have been worse, and
had we been permitted to leave the Borderlands dormant, Xanthus would have certainly delivered
the Jin’Sai into our hands. But what’s done is done. Sadly, the azure pass was an amazing
opportunity that will likely never come again. We made the best of it that we could. But with the
pass gone, just as we cannot threaten Eutracia, those in Eutracia cannot threaten us. And
Crysenium and its traitorous Envoys have been destroyed. So it would seem that the Jin’Sai lost
as much as we. The stalemate persists.”
Vespasian thought for a moment. “Directly after the games, I will call for a meeting of the
Suffragat,” he ordered. “We must discuss this turn of events. I will not tolerate another failure.”
“I understand, Highness,” Gracchus answered. “And although it grieves me to mention it, there is
another urgent matter that we must face. The latest treasury count—”
“I am aware of the treasury count!” Vespasian snapped. Trying to calm himself, he sighed and
gave Gracchus a hard look. “The Pon Q’tar does little else but whine about it! Do you think I
wanted to pay for these games with public funds? But what other choice did we have?”
He angrily rubbed his brow. “I’m sorry, Gracchus,” he said. “It seems that I’ve heard all the bad
news I can stomach for now. But you’re right about one thing. I doubt that the crowd will be willing
to wait much longer. The last thing that we need is another citywide riot on our hands.”
As Gracchus nodded and returned to his seat, Vespasian looked at the Games Master and
clapped his hands. At once the man walked toward the edge of the box and swiveled another
gilded sign. When the crowd saw the centurions again unlock the Gates of Life and hurry through,
they stood and shouted, their rising clamor quickly becoming deafening.
Persephone turned to look at Vespasian. Normally at the start of the games her husband showed
the same eager excitement as the mob, but now he only looked concerned. She did her best to
give him a reassuring smile.
Below, the customary processional sounds rang out. The massive Gates of Life swung open, and
dozens of Imperial Order horse-drawn chariots charged into the arena. Driven by accomplished
centurions, they began speeding around the arena wall in opposite directions, narrowly missing
one another for the amusement of the crowd. Following the chariots, a large band of Imperial
Order musicians entered, dressed in their finest uniforms and beating on drums and blowing into
trumpets, fifes, and flutes.
Today’s killings were special. Seeing the usual lot of common criminals ruthlessly butchered
always held great amusement for the Rustannicans of Ellistium. But watching Shashidan fighters
taken fresh from the battlefield and forced to fight to the death held a special appeal. By watching
the Shashidans die in the arena, the crowd could share in the legions’ victories. Vespasian knew
that this united his countrymen like nothing else, and so he too welcomed the coming slaughter.
Trying to forget his troubles, Vespasian took up that day’s handbill and read it. As usual, the
Shashidan prisoners of war possessing low military rank would be killed first. Because of their
relative unimportance, they would be creatively tortured and murdered without the right of combat.
These first killings served to whet the crowd’s appetite for the fighting that would follow later in the
day.
As he read further, what the emperor saw on the handbill stunned him. No wonder the crowd was
in such a heated frenzy! More than three thousand Shashidan fighters were slated to die during
the first act of the games alone. He had never seen such a huge number. Looking angrily out
toward the arena, Vespasian shook his head.
“What troubles you?” Lucius asked.
“Look at these tallies,” Vespasian answered. “They’re far too high! Although I do not object to the
way skeens die, I must protest this terrible waste! Most of these slaves should have been
branded for sale at auction! Imagine the tax revenue they would have provided to the treasury! Did
you know about this?”
Lucius’ expression darkened. “I assumed that the Pon Q’tar had informed you, as usual, of the
number before the handbills were printed.”
For the second time that day, anger roiled up inside Vespasian. “Apparently the lead cleric didn’t
see fit to inform his emperor,” he growled. He glanced over at Gracchus, then back to Lucius
again.
“I have called for an emergency meeting of the Suffragat to take place directly after the games,”
he said quietly to his friend. “We have much to discuss. I plan to dress down those willful
clerics—especially Gracchus. And I want an audience when I do it, so that my words cannot be
misconstrued. For such a supposedly learned mystic, Gracchus sometimes possesses an
amazingly short memory. But mark my words—before this day ends he will experience my
displeasure.” Vespasian sat back in his chair, scowling.
Lucius took a long sip of wine, then smiled. “So be it,” he said. “In the meantime, I suggest that
you not let the tail wag the dog.”
Vespasian nodded. “I couldn’t agree more.” As he considered his friend’s words, a plan started
forming in his mind.
Just then more oiled slave boys and girls in loincloths entered the box. Each one carried an
elaborate gold tray laden with jewelry, which they presented for the emperor and empress’s
perusal.
After looking over one tray, Vespasian declined. He glanced over at Lucius. “Spoils from the
Twenty-third’s recent campaign?” he asked.
Before answering, Lucius watched Persephone select a diamond and sapphire ring. Smiling, she
slipped it onto the little finger of her right hand.
“Yes,” the First Tribune answered. “They sacked many Shashidan towns before the Borderlands
were activated.”
“How much raw gold was brought home?”
Lucius shook his head. “Not enough to make an appreciable difference,” he answered.
Understanding, Vespasian returned his attention to the arena.
As the chariots charged dangerously around the inner walls, the musicians played and the
acrobats leaped and whirled. Vespasian quickly ordered the Games Master back to his side and
held up the handbill.
“There are far too many slaves marked for execution, you idiot!” He raised his voice to be sure
that Gracchus and the other Pon Q’tar members heard him. “Have you gone mad, you ignorant
son of a street whore? I want the women, children, and one-third of the healthiest men spared for
sale at auction on the new moon!” Finished, he lowered the handbill and calmly returned his gaze
to the arena without bothering to turn and look at Gracchus.
The Games Master simply stood there, stupefied. Such a huge last-minute change in the program
was unprecedented. He turned to look open-mouthed at Gracchus, but the lead cleric seemed
strangely unperturbed.
With a shaking hand, the Games Master nervously wiped the sweat from his brow. He had no
wish to become a pawn in a dispute between the two most powerful men in Rustannica. But
Vespasian had given him a direct order, and he had no choice. Swallowing hard, he looked back
at his emperor.
“It will be as you command, Sire,” he said.
The Games Master also knew that this immense and unexpected change in the program would
have to be handled personally. He would not be able to communicate this new order to the arena
centurions by signal. He would have to go down there himself. His greatest fear was how the
audience would react when they learned that the first-act killings had been so severely curtailed.
Surely the clever emperor had some way to make it up to the crowd, he reasoned.
Just as the Games Master turned to run down to the Gates of Life, Vespasian again surprised him
by reaching out and grabbing his wrist.
Calling on the craft, Vespasian augmented the strength in his arm and violently spun the man
around to face him. The pain in Gaius’ shoulder was excruciating. Vespasian drew the Games
Master so close that their faces almost touched. Then he looked over at Lucius.
“Tell me, First Tribune, was this huge group of captured Shashidans first discovered by Blood
Stalkers?” he asked.
“They were,” Lucius answered.
“And are those stalkers quartered here at the coliseum?” Vespasian asked.
Lucius nodded. “As you know, we must keep them caged when they are not deployed or they
would rampage through the streets, killing every Shashidan skeen they could find. The one
hundred stalkers assigned to the Twenty-third Legion are locked up below the arena floor. And as
your highness also knows, after the huge number of captives was taken, I ordered the entire
Twenty-third back to Ellistium. They had been on constant campaign for more than two years and
they deserved a visit home.”
Vespasian smiled. “Good,” he said. “Then we will do something else today that the crowd won’t
expect. We will publicly honor the stalkers by watching them do what they do best.”
When he glared back at the Games Master, Vespasian could see the astonishment in the man’s
eyes.
“Force one hundred Shashidan skeens into the arena at a time,” Vespasian ordered. “Bring no
females, for we need them for procreation. Then I want fifty of the Twenty-third’s Blood Stalkers
turned loose on them. When the first group of skeens is dead you will bring in one hundred more,
and so on. See to it that all the skeens are armed. I doubt that we will lose many stalkers, and it
will add to the flavor of the first act. Tell the stalkers that they are not to start the bloodletting until
they erect their legion standards and form ranks before my box.”
The Games Master couldn’t believe his ears. Before today, stalkers had never been allowed
participation in the games. Although they remained partly human, they were also products of the
craft and largely uncontrollable by anyone except an experienced magic practitioner.
“I understand, Sire,” Gaius finally answered. “It will be as you order.”
Vespasian finally released his grip on the man’s wrist. “Good,” he said. “See to it at once. And
have the crowd informed of the program changes their emperor has made.”
Vespasian didn’t need to tell the slave twice. As fast as his legs could carry him, Gaius left the
emperor’s private box and hurried toward the arena floor.
Seated among his fellow clerics, Gracchus smiled as he heard Vespasian give the unexpected
orders about the skeens and the Blood Stalkers. Well done, he thought. I couldn’t have produced
a cleverer countermove myself.
Benedik Pryam, one of Gracchus’ most trusted fellow mystics, sat beside the lead cleric.
Casually grasping the shoulder folds of his white and burgundy robe with one hand, he leaned
closer. The look on his face was not reassuring.
“Sometimes you push the Blood Royal too hard!” he protested under his breath. “We all agree
that he should be continually tested so that he learns how to deal with unexpected pressure—we
have done so since the day that he was born. And I agree that such tactics have made him into
the strongest and most beloved ruler that the empire has ever seen. But when you defy him in
public—and before the entire coliseum audience, no less—you go too far! He must have the
continued respect of the mob if he is to conquer Shashida for us!”
Smiling, Gracchus turned to look at his friend. Despite his great age, Benedik remained an
attractive, vigorous man, because the time enchantments had been granted to him when he had
passed only fifty Seasons of New Life. His dark eyes were sharp, and he had a full head of
iron-gray hair that he kept cropped close.
“Worried about our young prodigy, are you?” Gracchus asked, as he popped a grape into his
mouth. “Don’t concern yourself unnecessarily, my old friend. He is everything that we could have
asked for and more. If I’m right, this unexpected order of his will do nothing but further embed him
into the public’s heart. Vespasian knows what Rustannica is. It’s the mob, pure and simple. They
will soon love him even more for the unprecedented spectacle that he is about to grant them.”
“Be careful, Gracchus,” Benedik pressed, “lest this monster that we have created get out of
hand.” But Gracchus only smiled and turned his gaze back to the arena.
As he waited for the news about the change in the program to reach the crowd, Lucius also found
himself curious about Vespasian’s motives. After taking another sip of wine, the First Tribune
turned to look at his emperor.
“What are you playing at?” he whispered. “Blood Stalkers in the arena? That’s a first, even for
you.”
“My guess is that Gracchus planned to take full credit for the huge number of slaves who were to
be killed today,” Vespasian answered quietly, “even though he is not personally paying for them. I
intend not only to spare most of the slaves and sell them, but to upstage that old cleric and steal
his thunder at the same time. I’ll give the mob something the likes of which they have never seen.
We’re about to see how Gracchus enjoys having the tables turned.”
“And not a day too soon, I might add,” Lucius whispered with a smile. “I know that he is your and
Persephone’s mentor. But he is also your servant, and he sometimes forgets his place. This is
not the first time he has openly defied you. He taunts you, but for what reason, I do not know.”
Persephone sat back in her chair, waiting for the arrival of the Shashidan prisoners and Blood
Stalkers. She knew what Blood Stalkers were, and she was eager to see them in action. Stalkers
were captured Shashidan mystics who had been transformed by the craft to serve the
Rustannican Empire. The transformation from Shashidan prisoner of war into Blood Stalker
changed the captured Shashidans into something less than human. Their sole purpose in life
became one of detecting and destroying other Shashidans possessing endowed, right-leaning
blood. They also made for excellent legion scouts. It was said that the Coven of Sorceresses
used them to great effect in their war against the Vigors wizards that took place several centuries
ago on Eutracia. It had been long assumed that Failee—the late Coven’s mistress—found the
needed forestallment calculations to create Blood Stalkers in the Vagaries Scrolls. Rustannican
mystics, however, had possessed the formulas for much longer.
By now more slaves were scurrying around the arena wall, shouting out the changes in the
program. Just as Vespasian had expected, the crowd first quieted as they absorbed the news, but
almost immediately they became more eager than before. Many started stamping their feet and
calling out Vespasian’s name in appreciation of their emperor’s cleverness.
Just then a shrill bugle call rang out, ordering the chariots, musicians, and slaves to hurry back
through the Gates of Life. As the tension in the coliseum mounted, the massive gates closed for a
moment. When they opened again, the crowd came to its feet, and its thunderous roar could be
heard in the farthest reaches of Ellistium.
The first group of one hundred male skeens was being prodded into the arena by Imperial
centurions holding brightly lit torches. If a skeen hesitated he was immediately burned. To the
crowd’s delight, this happened dozens of times. The smell of burned flesh started drifting its way
up into the stands, to the spectators’ uproarious approval.
The skeens wore only white loincloths, and their skin was oiled to highlight their bodies for the
crowd. Just as Vespasian had ordered, they were armed; some held short swords and shields,
others brandished tridents and nets. As they neared the center of the arena they huddled together
and stared in wide-eyed terror at the towering stands.
Their jobs done, the centurions retreated through the Gates of Life and locked the iron doors
behind them. As the crowd stamped and shouted, the privileged few who were able to command
the craft to augment their hearing soon heard the sounds of clanking chains.
An iron trap door in the arena floor slowly opened, revealing stone steps leading into the darkness
of the coliseum’s subterranean workings. Then, one by one, fifty of the Blood Stalkers attached to
the Twenty-third Legion walked up the steps and into the light. Like the skeens, they had never
been in the arena before, so they too looked around in bewilderment.
When all the stalkers had surfaced, the trap door closed. Leaning forward on her throne,
Persephone regarded the stalkers. She had to admit that they were the most gruesome beings
she had ever seen.
At first glance they seemed too large to be men, though they had two legs and two arms like men.
Their elongated heads held bloodshot eyes, but there were no noses, only slits in the skin where a
man’s nostrils would be. On each side of their bald heads lay elongated ears that ended in ragged
points of skin. A white fang protruded down from each corner of their mouths. Lathered drool ran
from their mouths to their chins and slithered down their hairy chests in long white strings. Their
only clothing was fringed leather warriors’ skirts, which did little to hide the misshapen male
genitals beneath them. Dried excrement clung to the backs of their legs, and each of their
elongated fingers and toes ended in a sharp talon. Each stalker wore a collection of dried eyeballs
hung around its neck on a leather string—Shashidan war trophies, Persephone assumed.
Each Blood Stalker was armed with a terrible battle-axe the like of which the empress had never
seen. The long black helves were randomly patterned with dried blood, and each was crowned
with a human skull. From each of the skull’s temples a shiny silver axe blade extended outward at
right angles. The sunlight filtering through the coliseum’s red canopies glinted off the axes’ highly
polished edges.
Besides their battle axes, two of the stalkers carried the familiar standards of the Twenty-third
Legion. The standards were sumptuous red flags, hung vertically from golden crossbars secured
at the tops of long golden staffs. Atop each staff sat a magnificent golden eagle, its wings
outstretched in triumph. The flag itself bore the gold-embroidered image of a great bear, the
mascot of the mighty Twenty-third. Beneath the bear appeared the number XXIII, also
embroidered in gold. At a signal from one of the stalkers, the monsters formed ranks, and the two
standard-bearers among them plunged the golden staffs into the sand, allowing the red flags to
wave in the breeze for all to see.
Persephone peered closely at the stalkers. She could sense more than ordinary insanity in these
creatures, something she could only describe as a crazed need to kill. A shiver of excitement shot
through her.
Suddenly the stalker ranks started moving. As if the one hundred armed skeens didn’t exist, the
stalkers marched around them in lockstep toward their emperor.
Vespasian stood and walked to the front of the viewing box. When he raised his arms, the
massive crowd stilled. For the first time today, absolute silence reigned in the arena. He smiled
down at the Blood Stalkers. Calling on the craft, Vespasian used his gift to augment his voice.
“Kill them,” he ordered.
At his words, the stalkers raised their axes and turned on the skeens. The crowd went wild.
At first the skeens tried to use their superiority in numbers to surround the stalkers and kill them.
But it was no good. The drooling monstrosities swung their axes in wide circles, making any
approach by their enemies impossible. Realizing that their only viable strategy had failed, the
skeens broke ranks. The stalkers chased after them, and the killing started in earnest.
Several skeens died immediately, their blood gushing into the thirsty sand. Only when the
survivors finally turned and formed up in numbers against an individual stalker did they have a
chance of killing it, and even then their victories were few. Breathless with excitement,
Persephone eagerly watched one such struggle unfold.
Waving their tridents and swords wildly, four skeens managed to force an enraged stalker up
against a section of arena wall. With a shout, one of the skeens threw his net over the drooling
monster. But just as the other three skeens started rushing in for the kill, the stalker unexpectedly
laughed.
Reaching up, the stalker gripped the net with his hands and tore it down the middle as if it had
been made of parchment. After tossing one half aside, he threw the remaining piece over one of
the approaching skeens, trapping him. With one swing of his dark axe the stalker took the skeen’s
head off at the shoulders and sent it tumbling to the sand. Blood spraying from the gaping neck,
the skeen died where he fell.
Screaming wildly, the three remaining skeens tried to rush the stalker all at once. The first to
reach the monster raised his sword and shield. But the stalker was much faster. As the bloody
axe blade came down it cleft the skeen’s shield and plunged into the man’s chest. Transfixed,
Persephone watched the stalker pull the axe from his victim. With it came the skeen’s heart,
impaled on the axe blade.
After tearing the smashed shield and bloody heart from his axe, the stalker dispatched the
remaining two skeens with equal ferocity. He severed the legs from one and the sword arm from
the other. Then, leaving the wounded skeens to bleed to death, the semihuman monster let go a
victory scream and lumbered off to find fresh quarry. Persephone took a gulp of wine, her heart
beating wildly.
At last the fighting neared its end. All the skeens lay dead save one, and only two stalkers had
been rent asunder. Persephone quickly calculated the score. For every stalker that had been
killed, nearly fifty skeens had died. She had to admit that she was impressed. Just then she heard
the crowd roar with laughter, and she soon saw why.
The last surviving skeen had been surrounded. Rather than kill him outright, the stalkers were
taunting him for the amusement of the crowd. But as one stalker moved in a bit too close, the
skeen lunged swiftly and plunged his trident into the thing’s chest. Impressed by the skeen’s
courage and skill, the crowd stamped and shouted gleefully.
Knowing that his fate was sealed, the skeen did something entirely unexpected. In a last act of
defiance he dropped his net and trident and ran to where a stalker had shoved one of the
Twenty-third’s standards into the arena sand. Pulling the standard free, he charged the nearest
stalker. As the surprised monster tried to parry the blow, the skeen deftly sidestepped and
impaled him with the standard’s pointed end. Screaming wildly, the stalker fell to the sand and
died, taking the red flag and golden staff with him.
The crowd was stunned into silence. For a legion standard to touch the ground was unthinkable,
much less that such a travesty might be caused by a worthless slave. The incensed stalkers
stood there for a moment trying to absorb what they had seen. Then they collected their wits and
charged en masse. Standing his ground, the unarmed skeen screamed out a degrading epithet
that he knew would be his last.
Suddenly an azure bolt shot through the air, thundering skyward with pinpoint precision through
the gap between the two red canopies. Its explosive sound drowned out even the bloodthirsty
mob. Recognizing the signal, the stalkers stopped in their tracks and turned to look toward their
emperor’s private box. His chest heaving, the condemned skeen also glared upward.
Vespasian was standing at the edge of his viewing box. It was he who had sent the bolt into the
air. One azure bolt launched during the games always signaled that the emperor commanded the
action to stop. The stalkers had immediately complied, and the crowd quieted. An eerie
combination of tension and silence filled the stadium.
Vespasian turned to look at the Games Master. “Send out the branders,” he ordered.
“Yes, my liege,” the man answered.
Walking to the edge of the box, the Games Master quickly swiveled another of the signs. The
centurions manning the Gates of Life opened the gate doors and hurried through. When they
reemerged, each man was holding a branding iron. The irons’ tips glowed red hot.
The centurions wandered among the vanquished Shashidan slaves lying on the sand. One by
one, each victim was branded with the image of the imperial eagle. When the bright red iron
touched the slaves’ skin, those feigning death were immediately exposed. Seven were found to be
still alive, screaming in agony at the unexpected pain. As the crowd cheered, the centurions
quickly put them to the sword. When their grisly work was done, the centurions saluted their
emperor, then went back through the Gates of Life and closed the iron doors behind them.
Vespasian extended his arms and levitated up and over the wall of his private box, his purple and
gold cape fluttering behind him. Every eye in the arena was on him as he landed gracefully before
the sole surviving skeen. He turned to look at the dead stalker lying impaled on the Twenty-third’s
bloodied standard.
Raising one hand, Vespasian pointed at the stalker corpse. At once the monster and the standard
rose into the air, the stalker’s arms and legs dangling toward the sand, his body dripping yellow,
acidic blood where the standard had entered his chest and exited his back. As the blood hit the
sand it hissed and smoked.
Vespasian beckoned with his fingers. The standard slowly pulled free from the dead stalker and
floated in the air. Then Vespasian pointed downward and the standard plunged itself into the sand
to stand upright once more. Vespasian released his hold on the dead stalker, and the monstrous
corpse crashed to the ground.
Turning back toward the skeen, Vespasian walked closer. The skeen looked to be about forty
Seasons of New Life, with dark hair and a ragged beard grown during his months of
imprisonment. Vespasian watched the man’s muscles coil as he neared, and he sensed the
intense hatred the skeen had for him. Despite the skeen’s deadly circumstances, there was a
sense of commanding authority in his eyes. This had once been a man of some note, Vespasian
guessed. Stopping about two paces away, the emperor folded his arms over his chest.
“What is your name, skeen?” he asked quietly. Vespasian took care to employ the skeen’s native
dialect, and he used the craft to make sure their words would reach the ears of every spectator.
“I am Tanjiro of the House of the Six Rivers,” the man answered.
“What was your rank in the Shashidan army?” Vespasian asked.
“I am the First General of the Twelfth Cohort,” Tanjiro answered. “And I do not answer to you.”
Vespasian smiled. “Ah, but you are wrong,” he answered. “Not only do you answer to me, but you
are no longer a general. As a once high-ranking officer, you must also have been a craft
practitioner.”
“Yes,” Tanjiro answered bitterly. “But my gifts are gone, courtesy of your endowed Twenty-third
Legion’s centurions.”
“That’s only fair, don’t you agree?” Vespasian answered. “After all, your forces do the same thing
to our captured officers who are trained in the craft.”
Enraged, Tanjiro stepped menacingly toward the emperor. The stalkers lunged to protect
Vespasian, but he knew he was in no danger. He stopped his grotesque servants with a wave of
one hand.
“We don’t murder our captives,” Tanjiro growled, “or sell them at auction like cattle! Nor do we
work them to death, or use them as sexual playthings! We treat them as respected prisoners of
war! Shashida has but one class of people! All people—be they of endowed blood or not—are
treated equally!”
His chest still heaving, Tanjiro tried to catch his breath. “That’s a concept with which you
Rustannican Vagaries worshippers seem to be unfamiliar.”
Tanjiro was surprised to see Vespasian’s expression soften a bit. Then the emperor stepped
closer.
“You Shashidans are as skillful at lying as you are at fighting,” he said. “Even so, I find that I like
you. Under different circumstances we might have been friends. You have courage. Moreover,
you are the first skeen to send one of my standards tumbling to the ground during a coliseum
spectacle. You risked everything to dare that last act of defiance. You could scarcely have asked
for a larger audience! Had I been in your place, I would have attempted the same thing. But that
does not change the fact that we are mortal enemies.”
As his words echoed throughout the arena, Vespasian looked out toward the multitudes. Every
spectator was on his or her feet, eager to know what would happen next. The emperor decided.
He looked back at the slave.
“Get down on your knees,” he said.
“No,” Tanjiro growled. “Not today, not ever. If you’re going to kill me, I demand a warrior’s death.
Let me remain standing so that I can see it coming.”
Vespasian was in no mood to barter with a slave—especially with one hundred thousand citizens,
the Pon Q’tar, the Priory, and the Tribunes all watching. He extended his hand again. Calling on
the craft, he forced Tanjiro to his knees.
“I’m afraid you have no choice in the matter,” he said softly.
Reaching to his side, Vespasian drew his dress sword. When it came free of its scabbard, its
razor-sharp blade glinted in the reddish light. The crowd held its breath. Persephone leaned
forward in her chair.
Vespasian employed the craft to force the slave’s head down, exposing the back of the man’s
neck. He raised his sword, then decisively brought it down.
A collective gasp went through the crowd. Rather than separating Tanjiro’s head from his
shoulders, Vespasian had buried the sword in the sand before the slave. Tanjiro hadn’t flinched.
But when he saw the shining blade standing upright only inches from his face, he looked up at
Vespasian with unbelieving eyes.
“I free you,” Vespasian said. “You fought well, and you were ready to accept death with equal
bravery. You are now a Rustannican freeman of the Phrygian class. Arise, Tanjiro. You have but
to take possession of my sword to claim your freedom.”
The slave was stunned, as was the crowd. Letting the air rush from her lungs, Persephone sat
back in her chair. When an emperor gave his sword over to an arena slave, the gesture granted
the slave perpetual freedom. From that day forward, the newly minted freeman needed only to
show the sword to prove his status.
Lucius smiled to himself, then turned to look at the Pon Q’tar. As he expected, they were huddled
together, anxiously discussing this unexpected turn of events.
Then the First Tribune remembered what Vespasian had said about wanting to dress down
Gracchus. As he took another gulp of wine, he realized that freeing a Shashidan general whom
Gracchus had personally marked for death had just done that very thing. And as Vespasian had
said, one couldn’t have asked for a larger audience!
Well done, my liege, Lucius thought. This is indeed a day of firsts.
Vespasian released Tanjiro from his enchanted hold over him. The freeman stood and looked his
new emperor squarely in the eyes, then reached down and pulled the sword from the sand. He
admired it for several moments. Then, to everyone’s astonishment, Tanjiro tossed it away. The
mob gasped.
“I reject your offer,” Tanjiro said. “Better that I should be killed this day than to live in this
monstrous dictatorship and watch my fellow comrades die for your pleasure in the arena. Kill me,
Vespasian. Kill me and let’s be done with it.”
Vespasian respected Tanjiro’s answer. As a fellow warrior, he had half expected it. He looked
Tanjiro in the eyes.
“Are you sure, Shashidan?” he asked. “I will not ask again.”
“Kill me or send me home,” Tanjiro answered.
“Very well,” Vespasian said. “I have tried to be merciful. Let your death be on your head.”
Vespasian opened his palm and held it out toward the sword lying in the sand. At once the
weapon obeyed and jumped into his grasp. He stood there for a moment, thinking. After wiping the
blade clean he calmly sheathed it.
Tanjiro glared at him. “What are you waiting for?” he demanded. “Get it over with!”
The spectators were again restless for action, and they began shouting and stamping once more.
The chant “Kill, kill, kill!” started thundering through the arena.
Vespasian looked around at the decorated arena walls. Choosing an image, he pointed toward a
place on the wall just to the right of the Gates of Death. An azure bolt left his fingertips and tore
toward it. It struck the stone surface, then flattened out, blanketing the beastly image that
Vespasian had selected.
The creature represented on the wall started to come alive. The sight was terrible, mesmerizing.
Crying out in agony as it emerged from the dark stones that seemed to give it birth, the thing took
form. On recognizing the beast, the crowd roared in approval. The azure glow faded, and the
newly born creature launched itself from the wall to pounce, snarling, onto the arena sand.
It looked like a giant wolf, except that it stood on its hind legs. Spotted tan fur covered its body. Its
teeth were long and sharp, and its eyes glowed bright red. Its hind feet were padded like a wolf’s,
but its front legs had five long, taloned fingers. Like the Blood Stalkers, it drooled copiously. Dark
armor encased its torso; greaves and gauntlets protected its lower legs and forearms.
Vespasian looked at Tanjiro. “It’s called a Rustannican Heart Wolf,” he said quietly. “And the heart
it wants is yours. You did say that you wanted to see it coming, did you not?”
Vespasian looked over at the hideous creature and then pointed at Tanjiro.
“Kill,” he ordered. His menacing whisper reached to the far corners of the arena.
The snarling wolf bounded in gigantic leaps across the arena. Calmly, Vespasian stepped aside.
Knowing that there was no escape, Tanjiro stood his ground. Just before the wolf took him, he
gave Vespasian a final, defiant look.
The Heart Wolf pounced on Tanjiro, pinning him to the sand and disemboweling him in seconds.
Eagerly rooting around in the screaming man’s ravaged chest cavity, the wolf latched onto
Tanjiro’s heart with its jaws and tore it free. With the Shashidan general dead, the monster
devoured the heart and then started gorging on the rest of the corpse.
As the giddy crowd chanted his name, Vespasian returned to his private viewing box and
reclaimed his seat. Persephone gave him an admiring look; Lucius respectfully tipped his wine
goblet toward him.
“Well done, my liege,” the First Tribune said. He turned to look at the Pon Q’tar clerics. Unlike the
overjoyed crowd, they sat in stony silence. Lucius barked a short laugh.
Vespasian called out for the Games Master. The nervous man was at the emperor’s side in an
instant.
“As usual, your highness no doubt wishes the dead bodies to be dragged away through the Gates
of Death?” he asked.
Thinking for a moment, Vespasian sat back on his ivory throne. “No,” he answered. “Let us start
another new tradition this day. Bring the next one hundred skeens in, but do not arm them. Have
centurions bind them to the corpses and body parts littering the sand—including whatever might
be left of their beloved general. For the next fifteen days we will watch them starve to death as
they are forced to lie there in the heat, bound tightly to their dead, rotting comrades. As that is
taking place, send some centurions into the arena to deal with the Heart Wolf. That should provide
some interim amusement for the crowd.”
“As you wish, Highness,” the Games Master answered. “And if I may say so, your idea about
binding the living to the dead is an excellent one. It is a fine new tradition, indeed.” Without further
ado, he hurried away to tend to his orders.
Suddenly pensive, Vespasian watched as the next one hundred skeens were shoved into the
arena. The centurions roughly pushed them to the sand and carried out their orders, first binding
the skeens hand and foot and then lashing them to their fallen comrades.
Sensing Vespasian’s mood, Persephone gave him a worried glance. “What is it, my love?” she
asked. “All in all, the day goes well.”
Vespasian turned and looked into her eyes. “It is not this day that bothers me,” he answered
cryptically, “but all the days to follow.”
He looked down at the Heart Wolf greedily feeding on what was left of the Shashidan general.
Blades drawn, several centurions were cautiously approaching the beast. As Vespasian watched
the wolf rip and tear at the mutilated body, admiration showed in his eyes.
“That man died well,” he mused. “Part of me wishes that he had accepted my offer of freedom.
When my time comes, I hope I can meet death with the same courage that he displayed. They
are a tough and determined lot, these Shashidan Vigors worshippers. Often of late, in my
nightmares I see us losing this war. Then I awaken, shaking and bathed in a cold sweat.”
“I know, my love,” Persephone answered quietly. “But we will prevail, I promise you.”
The crowd cheered again as one hundred more armed skeens were prodded into the arena to
face the vicious Blood Stalkers, and the carnage resumed. For a moment Persephone took her
gaze from the games and again looked at her husband’s profile.
It will be a long day and an even longer night, she thought. But most interesting of all will be the
meeting that follows the games. It seems that the Pon Q’tar have some explaining to do.

CHAPTER II
AS HE WALKED THROUGH THE PALACE, PRINCE TRISTAN of the House of Galland heard his
boot heels echo through the largely deserted corridor. It was well after midnight and sleep had not
come. Tiring of tossing and turning, he had finally risen from his bed.
He had quickly donned his familiar black trousers, black leather vest, and knee boots. He then
arranged his dreggan, baldric, and quiver of throwing knives over his right shoulder. After running
his hands through his salt-and-pepper hair, he left his quarters.
Feeling his stomach growl, he entertained the notion of going to the palace kitchens to get
something to eat. As was often the case, earlier tonight the Conclave had taken supper together
in one of the palace’s elaborate dining rooms. The meal had been tasty enough, provided one
liked lamb. But he didn’t, and he had eaten little. His twin sister Shailiha had never cared for it
either.
He hoped that eating something would ease his restlessness, but he knew that it wouldn’t cure it.
Although the Vagaries finally seemed to have been defeated in Eutracia and Parthalon, the events
of his recent visits to the other side of the Tolenka Mountains still lay heavily on his mind. In many
ways his amazing adventures seemed to be no more than a series of strange, unbelievable
dreams. There had been a time when he would have thought anyone who tried to tell him such
tales stark raving mad.
But these things hadn’t happened to someone else; they had happened to him. And as the Jin’Sai
and leader of the Conclave of Vigors, it was his responsibility to see that the mission entrusted to
him by the late Envoys of Crysenium was fulfilled.
As she died in Tristan’s arms, the Envoy named Miriam had ordered Tristan and his Conclave to
do the unimaginable. She said that they must somehow find a way over the Tolenka Mountains
and into Rustannica—the menacing nation that was home to the Pon Q’tar Vagaries clerics.
Once there, Tristan and his followers were to try to contact the mysterious League of Whispers.
The League was supposedly the secret rebel force of Vigors followers that was trying to unseat
the Pon Q’tar and bring down the warlike nation that the Vagaries clerics had created. Not unlike
the Mistresses of the Coven, the Pon Q’tar had aeons earlier started a vicious civil war, attracting
to their cause many mystics who also believed that the Vagaries should rule as the sole arm of
the craft.
When they had secretly gathered enough followers, the Pon Q’tar had declared a huge part of
Shashida to be independent, and named the new nation Rustannica. Then they trained their
amazing gifts on the long Shashidan-Rustannican border. Using the craft, the Pon Q’tar
enchanted the border area to create a buffer against a Shashidan invasion. Normally beautiful and
serene, the newly formed Borderlands could be morphed at will by the Pon Q’tar into various
types of desolate, unstable wasteland.
With the secession of Rustannica, the civil disturbance that had spawned her soon grew into a
monstrous war between the two nations. It came to be known as the War of Attrition, and it had
been going on ever since. Untold millions from each side had perished.
With her dying breaths, Miriam had told Tristan that it was his and Shailiha’s shared destiny to
secure a lasting peace between Rustannica and Shashida. But Miriam had sternly warned Tristan
that in doing so, he and Shailiha must take care to ensure the continued existence of both sides of
the craft. For unlike the Pon Q’tar, the Shashidan mystics believed that if either side of the craft
should perish, so would the other. They also believed that if the world was deprived of all magic, it
would plunge into an eternal darkness from which it would never emerge.
Trying to focus on the positive, Tristan took stock of his blessings. So far, he and his Conclave
had been victorious, though at a great price. East of the Tolenkas, several savage challenges to
the Vigors had been met and defeated. The Sorceresses of the Coven, Tristan’s son Nicholas,
and Wulfgar—his and Shailiha’s half brother—had all tried in their own ways to destroy the Vigors
in Eutracia and Parthalon. Most recently, the Conclave had thwarted Serena, Wulfgar’s wife, who
had vowed to carry on her husband’s legacy. Tristan knew that some of those vanquished foes
had been counseled and aided by the Pon Q’tar clerics.
But the azure pass that had once allowed travel through the Tolenka mountain range was no
more. It had been sealed forever by the Pon Q’tar, after the clerics learned about the Envoys and
how they were helping Tristan to understand and fulfill his destiny. How he wished that those wise
mystics were still alive, so that they might somehow help him in his newly realized mission.
Instead, he had seen the results of the butchery inflicted on the well-meaning Envoys by soldiers
of Rustannica’s Imperial Order. Then he had narrowly escaped the Borderlands with his life,
returning to Eutracia just as the pass sealed behind him. With the Envoys gone, no one from the
western side of the Tolenkas could help him and the Conclave to cross the peaks into
Rustannica, or to contact the mysterious League of Whispers. Clearly, whatever actions he and
his allies took must be of their own devising.
As he walked, Tristan allowed his surroundings to distract him from his worrisome thoughts. The
massive palace was a wonder, literally sparkling with beauty and cleanliness. Rebuilt and
redecorated by Minion and civilian workers after Wulfgar’s second failed invasion attempt, the
structure had risen to an even greater splendor than before the deaths of Tristan and Shailiha’s
parents.
Each hallway corner was guarded by two stern warriors of the Minions of Day and Night. They
were the savage winged fighters who had originally been conjured by Failee, First Mistress of the
Coven, but now swore allegiance to Tristan. The Minions represented the only standing army
Eutracia and Parthalon had.
As Tristan approached another corner, the pair of warriors on guard there snapped their heels
and came to quick attention. Tristan gave them a cursory nod. The warriors’ dark wings were
folded behind their backs and their leather body armor shone in the light of the hallway torches.
Great curved swords known as dreggans—like the one Tristan carried—hung in scabbards at
their hips.
Tristan much admired the Minions and he had relied heavily on them to help him win many bloody
victories, both in Eutracia and in Parthalon. But they were not the massively imposing force that
they had once been. At the height of their power they had numbered nearly half a million. But
losses from so many deadly battles had cut their ranks to fewer than sixty thousand. It weighed
on his heart to realize that the warriors might not be much help as he struggled to fulfill his newly
crystallized destiny. Even if a way over the Tolenkas could be found, there simply weren’t enough
Minions remaining to confront the vast Rustannican Imperial Order.
During his time in the Borderlands, from afar he had watched a lone Shashidan force trudging
through the snow, only to see it swallowed up by a great chasm that suddenly formed in the earth.
To his amazement, the single force had easily numbered one hundred thousand troops. Logic
dictated that the Rustannican forces were equally large, if not larger. Moreover, with their dark skin
and great wings, Minion warriors would be impossible to disguise, making their use more difficult.
It was becoming even more apparent that if Tristan and his followers entered Rustannica, their
tactics would have to rely on stealth and cunning rather than brute force.
But the situation wasn’t altogether bleak, he reminded himself. Many advantages and much craft
knowledge had been garnered during the Conclave’s ongoing battles against those who would
have the Vagaries triumph.
Most importantly, the Conclave was finally in possession of the fabled Scroll of the Vigors and
Scroll of the Vagaries. The Shashidan mystics had granted to Faegan the formula allowing him to
use the precious indices to the scrolls. As the Conclave’s chief craft researcher, the eccentric
wizard could effectively search through the scrolls’ vast teachings to pinpoint any forestallment
formula the scrolls held. The forestallment could then be imbued into the blood of an endowed
person, allowing immediate access to any gift the spell offered. Although part of the Vigors Scroll
had been accidentally burned away during Wulfgar’s first attempt to invade Eutracia, Tristan
believed that its remaining spells would prove a great help in the challenging days to come.
Moreover, the Conclave’s newfound ability to change blood signature lean had allowed the
rehabilitation of the Consuls of the Redoubt, the lesser wizards who had once fallen prey to
Nicholas’ dark influence. The consuls’ daughters, who had been secretly learning the Vigors at
Fledgling House, a castle tucked away to the north at the base of the Tolenkas, had also found
their way home to the Redoubt.
Along with the acolytes—the sisterhood of the craft that was the counterpart of the Consuls—the
Redoubt bustled with magic students and practitioners of both sexes. Nathan, father of the
fledgling Mallory, had been named Lead Consul. And Aeolus, a wizard who had once served with
Wigg on the late Directorate of Wizards, had left his martial training school in Tammerland to
become a full-fledged member of the Conclave.
Four of the massive Black Ships used during the recent attack on Serena’s stronghold in
Parthalon had survived and were being repaired in Parthalon. Tyranny, the Conclave’s privateer
and commander of the ships, would soon bring them home. The small fleet would then be
moored at the Cavalon Delta to await Tristan’s orders. Tristan was eager to have the ships return,
because he guessed that they might somehow prove instrumental in crossing the Tolenkas.
Tristan weighed these things and many more as he continued on toward the palace kitchens.
Much had changed, he knew. In some ways, the forces protecting the Vigors east of the Tolenkas
had never been stronger. But in other ways, especially given the dwindling numbers of Minion
warriors, things had never been more worrying.
Rounding another corner, he saw candlelight framing the edges of the kitchen doors. From behind
the doors came tittering laughter. Curious about who else was about at this hour, he pushed open
the doors and walked in.
To his mild surprise, Shailiha and the sorceress Jessamay sat at a great butcher’s table in the
center of the room. Shawna the Short was also there, sweeping the floor and mumbling to
herself. As Tristan approached, Shailiha and Jessamay flashed him mischievous grins, and
Shailiha beckoned him to come and sit with them.
Removing his weapons and placing them on the table, Tristan took a stool between the two
women. He had never liked the formality of the palace dining rooms, and always preferred taking
his meals in the kitchen. The notion suddenly crossed his mind that when the Conclave members
took their evening meals together, it should be here. Then he realized that Wigg, stickler for royal
decorum that he was, would surely protest.
Fires burned quietly in several large brick wall hearths, their orange-red flames welcoming him
into the room. Wonderful smells teased his senses. Dozens of shining copper pots and pans
hung from racks set low enough for Shawna the Short to reach them easily. A massive wine
cellar lay behind an iron and glass door set into one wall. The cellar’s thousands of dusty bottles
lay in racks, perpetually cooled by one of Wigg’s spells.
The table was laid with what looked like a feast: roasted ham, sliced cheese, vegetables, and
brown bread were piled on trays. Beside them was a stone container filled to the brim with the
spicy ground mustard for which the Eutracian province of Ephyra was famous. Two large pitchers
of ale sat on the table, along with some empty pewter plates and tankards. Tristan knew perfectly
well that this unexpected meal was Shawna’s doing. Gratefully, he built a thick sandwich and filled
a tankard. Shailiha gave Shawna a quick glance and slid her stool closer to her brother’s.
“It seems that we have been found out,” she whispered.
“What do you mean?” Tristan asked.
“Jessamay and I decided to come here and get a snack,” she answered. “It seems that she
doesn’t like lamb any more than you or I. Anyway, we thought that we’d be clever and raid the
kitchen without Shawna’s knowing.”
Tristan laughed. “There’s never much chance of that,” he answered.
Jessamay smiled ruefully. “No sooner did we get here than Shawna came bustling in to do some
late-night cleaning.” Raising an eyebrow, she looked over at the busy gnome. “Just watching her
exhausts me! I beg the Afterlife—doesn’t that little woman ever stop?”
After taking another bite of his sandwich and washing it down with more ale, Tristan shook his
head. “Not that I’ve seen,” he replied with a grin.
“Anyway, after we put up with her fussing about how we should have eaten more of her lamb, she
finally relented and put this food out for us,” Shailiha said. “I suggest that you eat well this time, or
we’ll never hear the end of it.”
Tristan took another swig of ale, then smiled. “You’re probably right,” he said. “Anyway, I’ve always
thought that simple food was the best. And to that noble end I will be as gluttonous as humanly
possible.”
As he heard Shailiha and Jessamay laugh, he couldn’t help but enjoy the carefree sound. These
two women had endured similar—and similarly awful—hardships at the hands of the late Coven
of Sorceresses. Shailiha had been abducted by the Coven because Failee needed her to
consummate her mad plan to transform Shailiha into her fifth sorceress. Shailiha had been
pregnant at the time. Only after many deadly trials had Tristan and Wigg been able to reach
Parthalon and bring Shailiha and her new baby girl home. Frederick, Shailiha’s late husband, killed
during the Coven’s savage attack on Tammerland, had not lived to see his child. Although Shailiha
seemed happier these days, Tristan knew that she often felt lonely.
Jessamay, a full-fledged sorceress in her own right, had once been a member of Wigg’s famous
Black Guard—an elite group of Vigors followers who employed hit-and-run tactics against the
Coven during the Sorceresses’ War. After being taken prisoner by Failee’s forces, she and
several others like her had been used by Failee as test subjects for her cruel experiments. More
than three hundred years later, Tristan and Wigg found Jessamay cowering alone in the belly of
the Recluse, the Coven’s onetime stronghold in Parthalon. She didn’t look any older than Shailiha
and Tristan, since she had been put under the protection of the time enchantments at the age of
thirty-five, but she was bent and nearly broken by pain and starvation. After she had recovered,
Tristan had offered her a seat on the Conclave. To everyone’s approval, Jessamay readily
accepted.
As he took another sip of ale, Tristan looked at his sister again. She was as pretty as ever. Long
blond hair fell to her shoulders, and her hazel eyes shone with life. Although Shailiha often wore
gowns, tonight she had chosen a simple dark blouse, a leather jerkin, green trousers, and soft
brown boots. A gold medallion hung around her neck, an exact copy of the one Tristan wore. The
medallions, enchanted by the Envoys during Tristan’s second and last visit to Crysenium, allowed
each to see whatever the other saw. Tristan and Shailiha had used the medallions infrequently,
but he believed that they might have great value in the days to come.
Suddenly he wondered about his niece. “Shai, where’s Morganna?” he asked, looking around. She
tilted her head toward a corner of the room, and then he saw the cot set up there, and Morganna
lying asleep, the covers tucked up around her chin. The usually energetic three-year-old looked
the picture of peace and contentment.
Just then Shawna quit her incessant sweeping and waddled over to the table, fists on her hips.
Knowing full well what was coming, Tristan rolled his eyes at Shailiha.
“So, Your Highness,” Shawna began, “it seems that tonight’s dinner didn’t suit you, either, eh? I’ll
have you know that my rack of lamb is the best in the kingdom! If you don’t believe me you can
ask the First Wizard—he’ll set you straight! He didn’t have to be coaxed into eating three helpings
of it!”
She gave a little snort of disapproval as she watched Tristan take another bite of his sandwich.
Soon one of her wizened index fingers was waggling before his face.
“I’ll have you all know that’s not a proper meal you’re eating,” she added, “even though I laid it out
myself!”
Tristan knew that the best way to deal with Shawna was to give back as good as she dished out.
Like most gnomes, she didn’t respect anyone whom she could intimidate. Before answering, he
gave her a knowing look.
What Shawna lacked in stature she more than made up for in tough-minded spirit. Her iron-gray
hair was knotted in a severe bun at the back of her head. A stark white apron was tied around her
middle over her plain gingham dress. The laces of her no-nonsense shoes were, as always,
double-knotted, so that she would never have to stop working for such a silly reason as retying
her footwear. Her calloused hands were gnarled but strong. Everything about her bespoke the
virtues of hard work and common sense. As her sharp blue eyes met Tristan’s, he suspected that
she wanted to smile back, but he also knew that she wouldn’t allow herself the luxury.
“I just don’t like lamb, that’s all,” he said, deliberately chiding her. “But my sandwich is good.” He
gave her a quick wink. “I made it myself.”
Before Shawna could retort, the kitchen doors blew open and Shannon the Short, Shawna’s
husband, came charging into the room. His face was almost as red as his beard, and he was out
of breath.
As usual, Shannon was wearing a pair of worn blue overalls and a red work shirt, the sleeves
rolled up over his beefy forearms. A black watch cap sat at a jaunty angle on his head. One hand
held an ale jug, and the other grasped a corncob pipe.
As the pungent smoke curled its way up and out of the pipe and into Shawna’s spotless kitchen,
Tristan watched her well-known ire rise even farther. She was always upset whenever Shannon
came near Morganna with his jug and pipe, however harmless he might be. But this time
something in the look on the little man’s face told Tristan that trouble was afoot.
“What is it?” the prince demanded.
“It’s Master Faegan!” Shannon said, trying to catch his breath. “He told me to fetch you three
straightaway! He needs you in the Archives of the Redoubt! All the other Conclave members are
already there, saving Tyranny, Traax, and Sister Adrian, who are still in Parthalon!”
Standing, Tristan hurriedly arranged his weapons over his right shoulder.
“What’s wrong?” Shailiha demanded, also rising.
“I doubt that even Master Faegan could describe it!” Shannon replied. “He wants everyone to see
it with their own eyes! You must come now!”
“For the Afterlife’s sake, tell us what’s going on!” Tristan shouted as he and the two women
hurried for the door. But Shannon had already entered the hallway and was waddling away as fast
as he could.
Shailiha was the last one to leave the room. As she reached the doorway, she abruptly stopped to
look first at Morganna and then at Shawna.
Shawna smiled back reassuringly. “You know that I will,” she said gently. With a quick nod of
thanks, the princess hurried after the others.
Running down hallway after hallway, they made their way through the secret passageways
leading down into the Redoubt, the labyrinth of hallways and rooms that served as the Conclave’s
area of craft instruction and research. Even at this late hour the Redoubt was a mass of
confusion, with busy consuls and acolytes running this way and that on various arcane errands.
Tristan considered stopping one of them to demand what was going on, but then decided not to
use up valuable time. Several minutes and a few properly negotiated hallways later, he and the
others found themselves standing before the majestic Archive doors.
A crowd of bewildered consuls and acolytes stood before the entryway, obstructing the view.
Tristan shouted to everyone to step aside, and they parted to make way for their Jin’Sai.
The Archive doors were wide open. No sound came from the room, but a nearly blinding azure
glow was pouring through the doors and flooding the hallway. With a worried look, Tristan drew
his dreggan and charged in.

CHAPTER III

“O BLESSED FLAME, WE PRAY THAT YOU WILL REMAIN constant in your strength. Fear not
that we of the Priory will let your light fail, for as long as our virtue remains unblemished and we
are pledged to your everlasting light, your spirit will endure. For wherever your flame lives, so too
does the immense power of the Vagaries. In your name and toward that end I deliver this spell of
strength.”
Her prayer finished, the Femiculi of the Priory of Virtue remained on her knees with bowed head
and closed eyes. Now she would perform the second and final part of the all-important ritual.
Slowly she opened her eyes and looked up.
As it had done for aeons, a great flame burned in an enormous marble bowl in the Rotunda of the
Priory. Like the woman who knelt before it, the flame was pure, serene, and powerful. It burned
without heat, smoke, or sound—just a flame so high that it reached halfway to the occulum, the
circular hole in the apex of the chamber’s domed ceiling.
As the firelight burst through the occulum into the dark night, it reassured Ellistiumites moving
about the city that their precious flame still lived. Viewing the heavens above the rotunda each
evening was the only way for the citizens to be sure, for admittance to the dome was strictly
limited to the emperor, the empress, the Pon Q’tar, and the twenty Priory virgins.
The magnificent Priory Rotunda sat atop one of seven hills that surrounded Ellistium. A host of
krithian centurions, their weapons always at the ready, continuously prowled the Rotunda’s
beautifully landscaped grounds.
The Rotunda served three purposes. It housed the eternal flame, provided sanctuary for the
women who had dedicated their lives and their chastity to ensure that the flame never died, and
housed the ritual known as the auguries. It was believed that the sacred flame empowered the
Vagaries. If the flame died, so would the side of the craft worshipped by all Rustannicans. Should
the Vagaries die, so too would the nation, for the barbaric Shashidans would surely succeed in
crossing the Borderlands and wiping out all that the Rustannicans held dear. The Pon Q’tar had
commissioned the construction of the Rotunda long ago, soon after Rustannica had seceded
from Shashida. Legend had it that another perpetual flame burning in Shashida empowered the
Vigors.
It was also said that during the first tenuous days of the empire, the Pon Q’tar clerics stole the
Vagaries flame just before announcing Rustannica’s independence. Those brave clerics had also
tried to extinguish the Vigors flame at the same moment, but failed, and thus the civil war began.
With the coming of Vespasian and his supremely endowed blood, everyone believed that final
victory would soon be within their reach.
Before starting the needed spell, the Femiculi took a moment to look around the Rotunda. She
had been a member of the Priory since she was twenty years old. That had been twelve years
ago, and even now she remained awed by the structure that was her home.
The massive dome was fifty meters wide at its base and more than thirty meters high. The
occulum in the dome’s center was ten meters across, and its circumference was ringed with
gold. When the flame was at its lowest ebb, stars could be seen sparkling through the occulum.
The interior of the dome was made of pure ivory blocks. As the firelight struck the blocks it
created shimmering shadows of red, silver, and white.
The huge black altar that supported the bowl and the flame sat in the middle of the floor. A
freestanding fluted column of pure gold rose from each of the altar’s four corners, and each
column was topped by a jewel-studded capital. The floor surrounding the altar was made of highly
polished rose and black quartz checkerboard squares.
A second, smaller altar stood between the Femiculi and the bowl. As she looked at it, she
shuddered, trying not to think about its grisly purpose.
Now it was time for Julia Idaeus, the reigning Femiculi of the Priory, to commence the spell that
would empower the flame through another moon. Slowly she came to her feet and raised her
arms. Then she closed her eyes and summoned the craft.
Some said that the wind she summoned had a life of its own, and that it wandered the world as it
chose until being called forth on each new moon. Others insisted that each time it came, it drifted
to the Rotunda from a secret sanctuary nestled somewhere among the dark peaks of the
enchanted Tolenka Mountains. Only the Pon Q’tar knew for certain, yet it remained a part of the
legend that they refused to share. Nor did it matter, for no one dared to question the clerics’
wisdom.
Wherever it came from, the wind always served the same purpose: It fanned the embers at the
base of the flame, allowing the flame to burn brightly again for another full moon.
As she called the craft, Julia watched the familiar azure glow fill the Rotunda. She heard the
haunting wind arrive and swirl down through the occulum. As it neared her, it parted the folds of
her white gown and stirred her hair. Soon the gathering tempest howled so loudly that it hurt her
ears and its power nearly took her off her feet. Then the wind turned to fan the flame’s embers.
As Julia struggled to control the tempest, her arms shook and her power began to ebb. Soon the
embers at the base of the flame glowed brightly again, as if they had been reborn.
The flame strengthened and grew higher. With the last of her powers Julia forced the wind to
caress the embers one last time. Then she slumped to the floor. Its job done, the wind whistled
hauntingly as it soared back through the occulum and left the Rotunda for parts unknown.
Julia heard footsteps approaching. As she struggled to her knees, several other Priory virgins
came to help her up. Agrippina Sertorius, Julia’s most trusted Priory Sister, gave her a worried
look. Unlike when they appeared in public, inside the Rotunda the women were allowed to go
without their veils. Agrippina was five years Julia’s junior, with brown eyes and short red ringlets.
“It is done?” Agrippina asked.
Julia looked back at the flame to see that it again roared with life, nearly reaching the occulum.
She nodded to her friend. Over the next month the embers surrounding the base of the flame
would again dim and the flame would fade, forcing Julia once again to perform the sacred rite of
the wind. The ritual had been performed thousands upon thousands of times here in this same
place, by Priory Femiculi too numerous to name.
Because the Priory virgins were not protected by time enchantments, Julia would one day
become too old to perform the ritual. When that day came, Agrippina Sertorius or another Priory
virgin like her would be selected to become the reigning Femiculi. According to custom, Julia
would be freed from her duties to live her final days as a highborn Rustannican krithian, with a
substantial pension to provide for her living expenses and if she chose, she would be free to
marry.
“Let us help you back to your quarters,” Agrippina said. “We need our rest—you above all.
Vespasian’s meeting is to start in less than eight hours. He will want our counsel.”
Julia nodded. “I know,” she said. As she recalled the day’s occurrences, a pensive look crossed
her face. “Vespasian seemed different today,” she said. “Did you notice? I suspect that he has
some important issue that he wishes to discuss.” She sighed. “In any event, we will know soon
enough.”
Agrippina and three other Priory Sisters escorted Julia to the single doorway that led to their
quarters. Julia paused to confirm that the flame roared strongly in the center of the beautifully
constructed dome.
Satisfied, she left the Rotunda at last.

CHAPTER IV

AS TRISTAN, SHAILIHA, AND JESSAMAY RUSHED TOWARD the Archives entryway, the
intense white light coming through the open doors nearly blinded them. Groping about with his
free arm, Tristan found one of Shailiha’s hands and gripped it.
Just then the wondrous light began to dim. His vision clearing, Tristan saw the crippled wizard
Faegan sitting in his wooden chair on wheels, his arms upraised. His face showed intense
concentration; sweat had broken out on his brow. His arms shook from the great effort he was
expending as he summoned the craft.
Aeolus, Wigg, and Abbey stood by Faegan’s chair, their arms also raised.
“What’s happening?” Tristan whispered to Jessamay. He let go of Shailiha’s hand and quietly
sheathed his dreggan.
“I don’t know,” Jessamay whispered back.
After tense moments, the azure glow vanished at last, and Tristan gazed in amazement at the
scene before him.
Books, scrolls, and parchments had been ripped from their shelves and covered the first floor in
massive piles. Tristan couldn’t begin to imagine how long it might take to set things right.
Tristan beckoned Jessamay and Shailiha to follow him. Trying as best they could not to trample
any documents, they slowly walked over to where Wigg, Aeolus, and Abbey stood beside
Faegan’s chair.
“What happened here?” Tristan asked.
Faegan twisted around and looked sadly into Tristan’s face. The ancient wizard wore his familiar
black robe. His unruly gray hair lay parted down the middle and reached nearly to his shoulders.
Much of his face was covered by a shaggy gray beard, and his lustrous green eyes seemed to
bore straight into Tristan’s soul. The prince could see that the normally mischievous wizard had
been deeply sobered.
“I don’t know exactly what,” Faegan answered. “But I believe I know why.”
Faegan swiveled his chair around and pointed to the wall on the far side of the room. Everyone
turned to look.
Tristan knew that Faegan had brought the Tome—the primary treatise outlining the study of the
craft—and the Scroll of the Vigors and the Scroll of the Vagaries here to the Archives for
safekeeping. The wizard had used the craft to magically secure them within a five-sided
transparent wizard’s box high against the marble wall. Only the Conclave mystics had been
entrusted with the complex formula that could dismantle the dimly glowing box.
Tristan had approved of Faegan’s elegant solution. To the best of Faegan’s knowledge, the azure
box was impervious to everything except the spell that allowed for its dismantling. But something
had gotten through. More than the box was illuminated. The Tome and both scrolls were glowing
with the same bright white light that had only moments earlier engulfed the chamber. As Tristan
gazed at the unprecedented glow, trepidation grew in his heart.
Fascinated, Shailiha stepped nearer. “What is that light?” she breathed.
Wigg shook his head. He was dressed in his customary gray robe. His iron-gray hair was pulled
back from his widow’s peak into a braid that fell down his back. Despite his advanced age, his tall
form remained lean and muscular. His strong hands were gnarled and elegantly expressive, and
his craggy face and aquamarine eyes showed deep concern. Sighing, he placed his hands into
the opposite sleeves of his robe, then turned to the princess.
“As Faegan said, we don’t know,” he answered. “Logic dictates that the glow coming from the
Tome and the Scrolls has something to do with whatever made such a mess of this room. It took
a mighty force to do this. But only the Afterlife knows how or why.”
Wigg turned his gaze back toward the glowing box that held the three precious documents. “We
can only hope that the box protected them,” he added. “Luckily, it seems to be intact. And except
for the glow, they appear unharmed. But I suppose that there is only one way to know for sure.”
He turned back to look at his old friend. “What say you, Faegan?” he asked. “Do you think it
prudent that we dismantle your invention and take a look?”
Faegan, lost in concentration, didn’t reply. His eyes were closed and his head was bowed slightly
as he pressed his fingertips against his temples.
Tristan understood what Faegan was doing. The wizard was one of the rare few who
commanded the gift of Consummate Recollection, allowing him to perfectly recall everything he
had ever seen, heard, or read from his birth more than three centuries ago right up to the present.
Faegan was almost certainly mentally reviewing the Tome, to learn whether it might shed light on
this evening’s strange turn of events.
After a time, Faegan raised his head and opened his eyes. His face was pinched with worry.
“The Tome mentions this phenomenon,” he said quietly. “Truth be told, until this moment I never
gave it much importance. That is because the Tome does not specifically name the three
documents that when placed side by side will cause this effect. Now the answer has been
revealed. It is only by the greatest chance that we possess all three at the same time. This might
be the first moment in history when they have been this close to one another.”
“Do you mean to say that your conjured box caused all this?” Jessamay asked.
“No,” Faegan answered. “The box is only a means of protection. Still, there is no telling what might
happen if it is dismantled. Let me recite the proper Tome passage so that you might better
understand.”
Closing his eyes again, he leaned back in his chair and spoke:

AND SO IT WILL COME TO PASS THAT IF CERTAIN RELICS ARE PLACED IN CLOSE
PROXIMITY TO ONE ANOTHER AND LEFT TO REST, THE RESULTS WILL BE OF VAST
IMPORTANCE FOR THOSE TRYING TO UNRAVEL THE SECRETS OF MAGIC. THE AREA
SURROUNDING THEM WILL SLOWLY TAKE ON AN AURA THAT WILL GRADUALLY
ENGULF THE DOCUMENTS, CAUSING THEM TO GLOW. PRECEDING THE GLOW A
GREAT WHIRLWIND WILL COME, MARKING THE ADVENT OF THE SPELL. AFTER THE
PASSING OF THE WIND, THE THREE RELICS WILL GIVE UP MUCH WHEN THEY ARE
OPENED.

Faegan sighed and sat back in his chair. He opened his eyes.
“What does it mean?” Abbey asked.
Abbey was nearly as old as Wigg, Faegan, and Aeolus. She too was protected by time
enchantments. Like Jessamay, she did not look her age. The herbmistress and partial adept was
wearing a simple plaid dress that covered her shapely figure. Her long dark hair was sparsely
streaked with gray and her sensual face showed a strong jaw, deep blue eyes, and dark
eyebrows. Three hundred years earlier she had been Wigg’s secret lover, before the late
Directorate of Wizards banished all partials from Tammerland. During the dangerous hunt for the
Scroll of the Vigors, Wigg and Abbey had found each other again, and had been together ever
since.
“As you all know, the Tome is often difficult to understand,” Faegan answered. “I have long
believed that the Ones fashioned it to be purposely obscure, so that it would confound friend and
foe alike. It seems that we have yet another riddle to unravel.”
“What is the code to which the quote refers?” Tristan asked. “Could it be that there is much more
to the Tome and the Scrolls than we know?”
Wigg raised an eyebrow. “Have you ever known that not to be the case?” he asked. He looked
back at Faegan. “You still haven’t answered my question,” he said. “Do we dismantle your box, or
not?”
Faegan turned toward Aeolus. “What say you, Aeolus?” he asked. “We have yet to hear your
opinion.”
Before answering, Aeolus walked toward the glowing box. He stopped about two meters away
and looked at it carefully.
Aeolus was the most recent addition to the Conclave. Once a powerful Directorate Wizard, he
had grown tired of war, politics, and the craft and had resigned his membership to pursue a
private life teaching martial arts. But by necessity he had become involved in the search for the
Scroll of the Vagaries and the struggle against Serena. In the end he had accepted Tristan’s and
Wigg’s offers of a seat on the Conclave.
Three centuries earlier, Aeolus had been granted a time enchantment at the age of eighty
Seasons of New Life. Like Wigg, he remained lean and muscular, despite his physical age. His
head was shaved and his dark gray beard closely trimmed, and his dark eyes never missed a
thing. Out of respect for his late Directorate brothers, he wore a gray robe.
After regarding the box for a time, Aeolus looked at Faegan. “Does your spell incorporate any
dangerous components that might harm the documents if it is reversed?”
Faegan shook his head. “No,” he answered. “But owing to the need to protect the documents, the
spell I conjured is tremendously strong.”
Aeolus turned to look at the box again. “My greatest worry is what will happen when the
documents are again exposed to the environment of this room,” he mused.
“I concur,” Faegan said.
“I don’t understand,” Tristan interjected. “Why would the room harm them? The white light has
done its work and it is gone. Aside from the usual oil lamps, the only light comes from the
documents themselves.”
Faegan gave Tristan a grave look. “That’s not true,” he said. “The white light is still with us.”
Perplexed, Tristan looked around. “I can’t see it,” he protested.
Wigg shook his head. “Just because you cannot see it doesn’t mean that it isn’t here,” he replied.
“We tried, but even our collective gifts could only dim the light to a point that it cannot be seen by
those untrained in the craft.”
“It’s true, Tristan,” Jessamay added. “I can still see it.”
“So what does all this mean?” Shailiha asked.
“My wizard’s box, transparent though it is, might have blocked some of the light from the
documents. By conjuring the box, I might have inadvertently hampered the spell. It seems clear to
me that the spell was intended to bathe the documents in the light at its brightest. We have no
way of knowing what might happen if the Tome and the Scrolls were first partially exposed and
then are fully exposed to the light.”
As Tristan considered the mystics’ concerns, he was again reminded of what a tangled web the
craft was. Clearly, the decision whether to continue was a huge one.
Should the documents already be damaged beyond use, the Conclave’s struggle to ensure the
safety of the Vigors and bring peace to the lands west of the Tolenkas would suffer an
unimaginable setback. It was true that Faegan had read the first two volumes of the Tome and
could probably recite them verbatim to a consul scribe, but that might take years. And because
Faegan had not yet fully read the Scrolls, most of the precious forestallment formulas they held
would be lost forever. Perhaps worst of all, the Prophecies—the third and final volume of the
Tome that only Tristan was destined to read—would also be destroyed.
He looked back at Wigg. “Although I am the nation’s sovereign and the leader of the Conclave, I
must leave this matter to those who command the craft,” he said. “Only you four have the
knowledge needed to decide.”
Wigg nodded. “I agree,” he answered. He looked at the others. “What say you all?” he asked.
Faegan took a deep breath. “We can’t leave the Tome and the Scrolls up there indefinitely,” he
said. “We need them too badly. We could wait for the spell to subside, but that might never
happen. I say we liberate the documents and take our chances. I understand that the risk is huge,
but what other choice is there?”
“I agree,” Jessamay said.
“As do I,” Aeolus replied.
“Very well,” Wigg said. “Faegan will dismantle the box. And may the Afterlife grant us luck.”
Faegan swiveled his chair to face his invention, then closed his eyes and raised his arms and
began his spell of reversal.
For several long moments the box glowed brighter. To Tristan’s relief, the three sacred
documents inside did not. Slowly, the sides of the box came apart and vanished. Tristan held his
breath as Faegan reversed the last fragments of the spell, freeing the three relics from their
places high against the wall.
As Faegan opened his eyes and lowered his arms, the Tome and Scrolls suddenly flew toward
the center of the room. Tristan looked worriedly at the wizard.
“Was that your doing?” he whispered.
“No,” Faegan replied. “What happens now must be the purview of the Ones.”
To everyone’s amazement, the documents began to spin. Faster and faster they went, until their
forms became little more than glowing blurs. Then there was a great explosion, and an intense
wind sprang from nowhere.
All the fallen Archives documents went flying into the air. As the precious books and the papers
whirled about, three explosions followed in quick succession. Their immense force took the
visitors off their feet. Tristan landed hard beside Faegan’s overturned chair. He turned his head to
see the wizard lying beside him.
Tristan groggily did his best to look through the whirling paper blizzard. He could barely see that
the Tome and the Scrolls had stopped spinning. But something else was happening. The three
relics were emitting some type of azure dust. The quickly growing cloud grew and grew until it
engulfed the room.
As the azure cloud drifted over him, Tristan sensed his consciousness slipping away. He tried to
look around; it seemed that everyone except him and Faegan had been overcome.
Tristan managed a last look at Faegan. The old wizard’s face showed great delight.
“The legend is true…” Tristan heard Faegan faintly whisper, as if the wizard’s voice was drifting to
him from some faraway place. “Subtle matter exists…subtle matter exists…”
Unable to stay conscious, the prince finally surrendered.

CHAPTER V

“THAT’S MERE SNIVELRY, GRACCHUS!” VESPASIAN SHOUTED. Raising one hand, he
pointed an accusatory finger at the lead cleric. “It was hardly a worthy comment from someone of
your station!”
The emperor was clearly angry, as were many others present. Soon the meeting chamber again
burst into loud, disorganized rancor.
Lifting his scepter, Vespasian repeatedly banged it on the floor, and the room gradually quieted.
From his seat among the other tribunes, Lucius Marius gave his emperor a quick nod of support.
Vespasian returned the scepter to the golden holder beside his chair.
The meeting had been going on for nearly an hour. Vespasian had spent some of that time
castigating Gracchus not only for what he saw as Gracchus’ furtive try to murder an inordinate
number of skeens in the arena for his own aggrandizement, but also for what Vespasian saw as a
clear affront to his authority. Gracchus had apologized, but Vespasian sensed that Gracchus’
contrition was superficial rather than heartfelt, forcing him to doubt whether he had seen the last
of his lead cleric’s impudence.
It was early morning of the day following the opening of the games. Vespasian knew that this
meeting must be brief, for the games were scheduled to resume at midday. As the visitors
quieted, Vespasian took a moment to look around the room.
The rulers’ meeting chamber was called the Rectoris Aedifficium, or simply “the Aedifficium.” Like
the Rotunda of the Priory, it occupied the top of one of Ellistium’s seven hills. Aside from a few
skeens selected to serve them, admittance to the Aedifficium was strictly limited to the emperor
and empress, the members of the Priory, the clerics of the Pon Q’tar, and the eighty legionary
tribunes. Also like the Rotunda, it was guarded by specially chosen centurions. It was here that all
laws and important decisions were crafted and voted on.
Compared with many other structures in Ellistium, the Aedifficium was small, taking the form of
an amphitheater measuring thirty meters across. Vespasian’s chair sat alone in the center of the
room facing the curved rows of seats.
The walls, floor, and flat ceiling were made of pure turquoise. Gleaming onyx pilasters stood
against the curved walls every six feet, each crowned with a golden eagle, the empire’s symbol of
authority. Leaded glass skylights let in the morning sun. During nighttime sessions, wall torches
enchanted to burn without smoke were set ablaze, granting the Aedifficium an august presence.
The section to Vespasian’s left held the seats of the twelve Pon Q’tar members. The center
section was the province of the twenty Priory women, and the seats on the right were for the
eighty legionary tribunes. Custom dictated that the empress always sat in a place of honor beside
the First Tribune.
The Aedifficium was seldom in full session because some tribunes were always afield,
prosecuting the war. Because the tribunes outnumbered all the other members combined, only
the thirty-two highest ranking tribunes could vote, lest the empire’s military wing conspire to
control every voting session. Taken as whole, the voting body was called the Suffragat.
One legionary tribune was designated the Suffragat scribe, responsible for recording every word.
After each meeting, Vespasian and the Pon Q’tar heavily censored the scribe’s report. Only then
was a copy sent to every herald in the city. The heralds would then shout the report’s contents
from towers standing at each of the forum’s four corners, so that interested citizens could hear
the Suffragat’s latest pronouncements.
A dozen male skeens stood by, waiting to pass important documents among the Suffragat
members and to perform other services as needed. As a precaution against the leaking of state
secrets, not one Aedifficium skeen could read or write. Additionally, each skeen’s tongue had
been cut out and his eardrums pierced. Members of the governing body communicated their
needs to the skeens by way of hand signals. From the day he entered the service of the Suffragat,
every Aedifficium skeen was forced to live out his life in modest quarters on the Aedifficium
compound.
As the room finally quieted, from his place on the Aedifficium floor Vespasian again looked his
lead cleric in the eyes. Then he glanced toward the tribune scribe, and he smirked. Today’s
session report would be even more heavily censored than usual, he realized. Because Lucius
had already given the war report, Vespasian decided to move on to the next topic. He looked at
Julia Idaeus.
“Will the Femiculi please stand?” he asked.
Julia stood from her chair and gracefully smoothed her gown. She was an attractive woman, with
a lovely face and long dark ringlets. Julia and her sisters were not allowed to wear their veils in the
Aedifficium, largely because the other Suffragat members wanted to be able to gauge the
women’s expressions as various topics were debated. The Priory was important to the people of
Rustannica, and Vespasian knew full well that he needed its support if he was to rule effectively.
With her hands respectfully clasped before her, Julia regarded her emperor.
“The full moons are here,” Vespasian said. “I trust that the Vagaries flame has been replenished
and that should I visit the Rotunda, I would find it in vibrant stead?”
“Yes, Your Highness,” Julia answered. “The flame burns strongly again. All is well with the craft.”
“Thank you, Femiculi,” Vespasian said. “Do you wish to inform the Suffragat of any worthy
supplications proposed by the citizens?”
“Not at this time, Highness,” she answered.
“Very well,” Vespasian said. “You may be seated.”
Unlike the commanding way he behaved toward the Pon Q’tar and the military, Vespasian always
treated the Priory members with utmost courtesy. There were two reasons for this.
First, his respect for the Priory was genuine. The vows of chastity required to join the Priory were
taken willingly, and becoming a Priory member was considered a great honor. The vows were an
act of faith and central to the women’s beings. Should a Sister be caught breaking her vows, the
penalty was death. By law, the method of execution was ritual sacrifice, performed on the black
altar standing before the Vagaries flame.
In the entire history of the empire, this punishment had never been needed. Even so, the vows of
chastity were more than a sacred discipline that the Sisters were obliged to follow. They also
symbolized a guiding principle for the populace at large and gave them faith. The citizenry
believed that so long as the Priory Sisters remained pure, so would the Vagaries flame that they
tended and protected. As went the life of the flame, so did the life of the nation.
The second reason for Vespasian’s cultivation of the Priory was more pragmatic. Of the three
Suffragat factions, the Priory was the one most attuned to the will of the people. Only Julia Idaeus
heard the supplications of the citizens, rather than Vespasian, the Pon Q’tar, or the military. The
needs expressed by the citizens that Julia deemed worthy of debate were relayed to the
Suffragat. If the Suffragat agreed, the request was discussed and a vote was taken. Having the
Femiculi’s ear was a potent advantage in advancing one’s fortunes. People had been known to
come from thousands of miles away for a mere chance of being granted an audience with Julia
Idaeus. Sometimes the eager pilgrims succeeded, sometimes they did not.
Eager to move on, Vespasian looked at Gracchus. “I will now read the latest treasury report,” he
ordered.
Gracchus signaled to a skeen who rushed down the aisle and toward his side. After the cleric
gave the skeen a large diptych, the servant hurried down to the Aedifficium floor. Reaching
Vespasian’s chair, he went down on one knee, bowed his head, and reverently handed the gold
and beeswax book up to his emperor. After taking it, Vespasian waved the skeen away.
While the council waited, Vespasian read the report. The gold tally had deteriorated to a level that
was worse than he had expected. Gracchus was right, he realized. The treasury situation was
indeed dire. Would there be enough to finance his new plan? he wondered.
Rustannica’s pecuniary troubles had started more than one century ago, during the reign of one of
Vespasian’s predecessors. It had been his desire to greatly widen the war, hoping to finally bring it
to an end. By a narrow vote, the Suffragat had agreed. But in their rush toward final victory, they
had grossly underestimated the financial costs to the empire. In a way, Rustannica was a victim
of her own military successes against Shashida. The Suffragat was painfully aware that the war
was only one part of the problem. The far greater threat was the nation’s dwindling gold supply.
As was the case in Shashida, gold was the Rustannican currency. By law, the treasury was
supposed to hold a reserve of gold that was at least equal to the value of the gold coins circulating
the nation. Unknown by the populace, the law was being wantonly violated by the same Suffragat
members who had sworn to uphold it, providing yet another reason to heavily censor the session
reports. When an inordinate amount of the treasury reserves were used to intensify the war, the
Suffragat’s gamble had won out—but not in the way that they had hoped. As the pace and scope
of Rustannica’s war against Shashida was stepped up, great tracts of Shashidan territory were
won. But soon the campaign became a hollow victory, for the spoils taken from those lands were
disappointing.
In truth, the Suffragat did not know whether the reputed Shashidan gold hoards had been only
rumor, or whether they had existed and had been hurriedly moved to safety ahead of the
advancing Rustannican legions. The Suffragat suspected the latter. Worse, they also guessed
that the Shashidan military had been forewarned of the new offensive by a spy in their midst,
giving the Shashidans time to move their gold. The traitor had never been found.
Because of her greatly accelerated campaign, Rustannica had overextended herself. Soon the
cost of maintaining the war was proving too great even for the mighty empire to sustain. But the
Suffragat dared not abandon the new lands that she had conquered, for Shashidan cohorts would
quickly overrun the area and reclaim the empire’s newest source of slaves and added taxation.
Ninety years ago, a change from gold coins to parchment script had been ordered in a try to prop
up the treasury, but the experiment was short-lived. The paper script was quickly rejected by the
populace and angry mobs literally burned the new money in the streets. Rustannicans liked the
sound of coins jingling in their pockets, and only gold’s heavy weight and unique texture sustained
the people’s confidence in the economy’s well-being.
For a time, the Pon Q’tar, had tried to augment the gold supply by way of the craft. But that project
also failed, because even the revered mystics could not conjure gold in sufficient quantities to
make an appreciable difference. The empire had tried reducing the amount of gold in the coins,
but the public soon caught on and another outcry arose. Worse yet, the Rustannican gold mines
were nearing exhaustion and no new deposits had been unearthed for decades. For the first time
in the history of Rustannica, her gold supply was nearing a finite amount.
The Suffragat briefly considered stripping all the gold from the public buildings to augment the
treasury, but they quickly realized that such a brazen move would only confirm the public’s
growing suspicions. Moreover, as the population grew, so did the needs of the goldsmiths. Melted
and crafted into jewelry, yet more irreplaceable gold was being worn as adornments and buried
with the dead that would never find its way back into circulation. For a time the Suffragat actually
flirted with the prospect of grave robbing, but the idea was eventually dismissed as too risky and
unworkable. While the public worried and wondered, the smell of revolt drifted into the air.
Something had to be done to placate the masses while an answer could still be found.
And so, seventy years ago, for better or worse, the great coliseum had been built to distract the
mob from Rustannica’s constantly rising inflation, ongoing war, and ever-increasing tax rates. But
soon the massive costs associated with the grisly theater of death had brought the reverse effect
and made matters worse.
Like Rustannica’s offensive campaign, the coliseum had been wildly successful on the surface,
but it soon created more problems than it solved. The games had become an institution and
millions of people now relied on them to make a living. The spectacle employed countless
centurions, horse breeders, chariot and wagon builders, animal trainers, slave traders, architects,
surgeons, armorers, and untold other types of laborers. Shippers, contractors, and other
businessmen also relied heavily on the games.
Not to be outdone, a high percentage of Ellistium’s prostitutes counted on the debauchery of the
games to supply them with drunken customers who might not otherwise use their services. The
men’s and women’s incomes were heavily taxed by special bands of roving centurions. This
unique taxation source had grown more important by the year and would be sorely missed if it
stopped flowing.
Indeed, abolishing the games would now mean throwing so many people out of work that the
Suffragat feared that it would result in the final collapse of the economy. In short, the games had
become more than a diversion. They were the needed drug that numbed the populace to the
nation’s many problems, allowing the Suffragat to operate as it wished and its dwindling treasury
to go largely unnoticed. In an attempt to alleviate the crushing costs of the games, the Suffragat
raised the price of attendance, but that did little to help the massive problem.
Soon the coliseum in Ellistium had become so renowned that similar structures dedicated to the
same purpose had been erected in other Rustannican cities, further compounding the nation’s
troubles. And the continual influx of captured skeens and their offspring into the Rustannican
society was taking menial jobs away from the hard-pressed phrygian class. Unemployment
among the phrygians was nearly rampant. In many ways, the more conquests Rustannica won,
the poorer she became.
If the people rioted, Vespasian knew that the Suffragat would surely lose control of the nation.
Because of the ever-present war, there were rarely enough legions stationed in the capital to
overcome a mass uprising. Vespasian and Lucius secretly suspected that if all the legions were
ordered home, even their combined forces would not be able to maintain order for long. And if so
many troops were taken away from the front, all would be lost in any event.
Not since the Pon Q’tar had stolen the Vagaries flame from Shashida and declared Rustannican
independence had the nation’s future been in such peril, and Vespasian knew it. Only a mass
infusion of gold would solve the empire’s many problems, allow the war to continue in strength,
and help ensure the defeat of the Vigors. Ironically, the only way to get more gold was to wage
ever-costlier campaigns. And so the dangerous spiral went round and round, threatening to engulf
the nation once and for all.
Vespasian lowered the treasury report to the floor, then looked around the chamber. The people
sitting before him were the most gifted and dedicated that Rustannica had to offer. Even so, the
burden of finding a solution rested largely on his own shoulders. A plan to see his nation through
her troubles had been forming in his mind for some time. It was risky, and it could easily mean the
end of the empire should it fail. But if it worked, victory might finally be at hand.
As the Suffragat waited, Vespasian rose from his chair and started pacing. The room was silent
save for the sound of the emperor’s sandals on the polished turquoise floor. Because today’s
games would start soon, he was attired much the same as yesterday, as were the others.
As was often his habit, Vespasian drew his sword and he placed the flat side of its blade behind
his neck and across his shoulders. In one hand he held the hilt, while the sword point balanced
delicately against the fingertips of his other hand. Finally he stopped pacing and turned to look at
Lucius and Persephone. Then he regarded the entire Suffragat.
“The treasury report is indeed distressing,” he said. “We have tried everything we could think of to
increase the treasury count, but all our ideas have failed. If we raise taxes again I fear an outright
revolt—one that our home legions won’t be able to put down. Therefore I have a question for the
Pon Q’tar, and you clerics must be sure of your answer. The future of our empire might hinge on
it.” As Vespasian looked directly at Gracchus, the lead cleric calmly returned his emperor’s stare.
“All your efforts to destroy the reigning Jin’Sai and his Conclave have failed,” Vespasian went on.
“Although he and his sister remain untrained in the craft and his mystics are supposedly far less
gifted than we, they have defeated your plans at every turn. I understand that our direct
intervention east of the Tolenkas is impossible, or the Jin’Sai and his followers would be long
dead. Destroying him and his sister and crushing their Conclave are important issues, but they
remain the lesser of our battles. Even so, the Coven of Sorceresses, the Jin’Sai’s son Nicolas,
and Wulfgar and Serena were all bested by him despite your learned counsel. Make no
mistake—I have no fear either of him or of those winged abominations that he inherited from
Failee. We could crush their depleted ranks in hours. No, fellow members of the Suffragat—it’s
his blood that I fear, and his willingness to destroy the Vagaries so that his side of the craft might
rule. He and the Shashidans share this terrible dream. Rustannica is threatened by their
pestilence and stands alone against it. This is what the Pon Q’tar has taught me from the moment
of my birth, and so this is what I believe.”
Sheathing his sword, Vespasian walked closer toward the section holding the Pon Q’tar. Only
after looking at each male and female member did he again speak.
“And so, my friends, before I announce my plan I must know something,” Vespasian said quietly.
“Even though the Jin’Sai twice navigated the azure pass and spent time with the traitorous
Envoys of Crysenium, are you sure—absolutely sure—that he and his forces cannot cross the
Tolenkas? If the Suffragat ratifies my proposal, I have no wish to suddenly find our legions fighting
a war on two fronts.”
Gracchus stood and gripped the shoulder folds of his white and burgundy robe. He gave
Vespasian a confident look.
“I can speak for the entire Pon Q’tar on this matter, Highness,” he said. “The Jin’Sai cannot
cross—of that we are certain! The Oraculum agrees. If we in our majesty have not found a way,
then an untrained prince and his ragtag Conclave certainly cannot! Whatever action you have in
mind, rest assured that you may proceed without interference from the Jin’Sai.”
Taking a deep breath, Vespasian walked back and took his seat. Each time he sat there facing
the Suffragat he felt isolated and on display—as if it was his will pitted against theirs. The
emperor’s chair had been placed there for exactly that reason, he knew. It was but one of the
many prices to be paid for holding such immense power.
“May we now inquire about Your Highness’s plan?” Gracchus asked. As the Suffragat waited, the
Aedifficium grew silent as a tomb.
“Our gold mines are nearly depleted,” Vespasian said quietly. “And the Shashidan gold hoards
can seemingly be moved quickly, making their capture nearly impossible. But the Shashidan gold
mines cannot. I want to make a final, all-or-nothing thrust deep into Shashida and take the mines. I
intend to lead the campaign personally.”
For several long moments no one spoke. Lucius turned to Persephone and he raised an eyebrow.
The empress’s astonishment was apparent. As she tried to compose herself, she leaned closer.
“Did you…know about this?” she whispered. She was so stunned that she could barely get the
words out.
Lucius shook his head. “No,” he whispered back. “But I have guessed for some time that
something weighs heavily on his mind. Now we know what it is.”
Persephone’s worry became so great that her eyes shone with tears. Knowing that she needed to
be strong for her husband, she quickly blinked them away.
“You are his First Tribune,” she whispered. “Can we really do this thing, Lucius? Can our legions
take the Shashidan mines?”
Lucius narrowed his eyes and rubbed his chin. “That remains to be seen,” he answered. “But I
know one thing.”
“What is that?” Persephone whispered.
“Like Vespasian, I believe that taking the Shashidan gold mines is the only course of action left to
us. If we don’t, the treasury will soon be bankrupt. Our ability to wage war will come to a complete
standstill and the Vigors will prevail.”
Persephone clearly understood the immense historical importance of Vespasian’s proposal. The
Shashidan mines were deep in enemy territory and had long been considered unassailable. For
the Rustannican legions to fight their way there would be difficult enough. But to also take the
mines and occupy the surrounding lands would require a miracle.
She also knew that Vespasian was not the first emperor to offer such a plan, but in each case the
proposal had been voted down because of the staggering cost and hugely long odds. But it wasn’t
some previous emperor who had again proposed this great adventure. It had been Vespasian
Augustus I, whose birth and supremely endowed blood were shrouded in mystery and awe.
Even Persephone had to admit that she did not fully comprehend Vespasian’s magical powers.
Moreover, Vespasian commanded the overwhelming respect and devotion of his legions like no
emperor before him. He had fought with them, drunk with them, laughed and cried with them, and
helped to bury their dead. At his word they would follow him to certain death, if need be. This
would be a campaign of staggering, unprecedented importance, and its outcome would permit no
middle ground. The empire would either survive or fall, and Vespasian’s leadership would be the
fulcrum on which the scales of history would tip.
Suddenly Persephone’s more personal concerns began crowding in. A campaign of this extent
could take years, she realized. Her loneliness in Vespasian’s absence would be devastating. More
important, because she had produced no heir, should Vespasian be killed, Rustannican law
dictated that she would rule in his stead until she died or became too feeble to continue. Then the
Suffragat would choose a new ruler to fill the power vacuum.
But if Vespasian was killed and his campaign collapsed, what sort of shambles would remain for
her to govern? she wondered. Financing this special assault would surely use up most of the
remaining treasury funds. If the drive failed and the Rustannican treasury was bankrupted,
Ellistium would burst into an uncontrollable riot. Worse, within a matter of months Shashidan
hordes would mass outside the city walls. The decimated legions would surely be insufficient to
drive them back.
Amid the deafening silence of the Suffragat, Persephone again looked at her beloved husband. He
returned a gaze of grim determination mixed with the hint of a secret apology for not having taken
her into his confidence sooner. While she nodded her undying support, she found herself wiping
away another tear.
The Suffragat strenuously debated the wisdom of Vespasian’s proposal for more than two hours.
After each group had voiced its opinion, Vespasian again grasped his scepter and banged it on
the floor.
“What say you all?” he asked. “May we now vote?”
Gracchus stood. “Before we do, we of the Pon Q’tar must ask whether a battle plan has been
drawn up for this undertaking,” he said. “If it has, we demand to see it.”
Vespasian shook his head. “As yet there is no battle plan,” he answered firmly. “My reasons for
not ordering one are simple. Given its great importance, I wish the plan to be drawn up and
approved by the entire Suffragat, rather than only the military. I have but one demand. Once we
are in the field, I reserve the right to change any tactics I deem necessary to ensure our success.”
“In that case, the Pon Q’tar agrees that the proposal should be voted on,” Gracchus answered.
“But if a suitable battle plan cannot be formulated, the Pon Q’tar reserves the right to demand
another vote—one that would call for the total abandonment of the campaign. We will of course
demand that the First Mistress of the Priory perform the auspiciums to divine our fortune in this
endeavor. A favorable answer would go far in convincing the populace of our eventual victory. And
there is one other thing upon which we must insist. Should this campaign become a reality, we
believe that the Oraculum should be brought along as well. This sets a precedent, we realize, but
her visions might be of great use to us.”
“The tribunes agree,” Lucius said.
“As does the Priory,” Julia Idaeus added.
Vespasian nodded. “Very well,” he said. “Send the skeens to retrieve the plaques.”
With a quick hand signal from Gracchus, each skeen ran to one corner of the Aedifficium. There
sat an ivory chest, its sides and top emblazoned with golden eagles. Opening the chest, the
skeens removed dozens of gleaming onyx and ivory plaques, each about the size and thickness
of a man’s hand. One black plaque and one white plaque was delivered to each voting member of
the Suffragat. However important or complex a motion might be, voting was a simple process. No
secret votes or abstentions were allowed. A white plaque meant yes; a black one meant no.
When the members had been given their plaques, Vespasian looked toward the Suffragat as a
whole. “The voting may begin,” he said simply.
At once the air filled with plaques as the members cast their votes. As the plaques levitated,
Vespasian held his breath.
Not a single black plaque hung in the air. Because there would be no need for a formal count, the
members recalled their plaques. As they recognized the full import of what they had done, the
Suffragat members went silent again.
Vespasian was astounded. In the entire history of the empire, only two other votes had been
unanimous, and those had been “black-plaqued.” This had indeed been history in the making.
“The motion is passed,” Vespasian announced. “So that all three factions of the Suffragat might
be represented, Gracchus, Lucius, and Julia, to you I delegate the responsibility of starting work
on the battle plan. Leave no stone unturned.”
Pleased beyond measure, Vespasian nodded. “This session is adjourned,” he said. “But before
we leave for the games, we have one more responsibility.”
As Vespasian stood from his chair, Benedik Pryam edged closer toward Gracchus.
“It seems that we finally have our great campaign, after all,” he said quietly. “And just as we
hoped, it was Vespasian’s idea. I pray that the Pon Q’tar and this amazing emperor that we have
created are equal to the task…”
Gracchus smiled. “All in good time, my friend,” he answered. “We have taken a greater victory
from this day than we could have possibly wished for. I suggest that we go to the arena, drink
some wine, and watch more skeens die—for we will soon be on the battlefield.”
“Do you mean to say that we are going to accompany him?” Benedik demanded.
Gracchus nodded. “Given that he so cleverly demanded the right to alter the campaign on his sole
authority at any time, I’d say that we have little choice,” he answered. “But do not fear. I know how
to manage our headstrong young ruler. And if I cannot, well, the battlefield can be a very
dangerous place—even for emperors. Besides, once his gifts have won the day, his further
usefulness will be questionable.”
Gracchus watched Vespasian walk across the Aedifficium floor. Against the far wall was mounted
a golden war lance. Only the emperor was allowed to handle the lance, and it held great
significance for the empire. When the lance was brought before the public, its appearance meant
only one thing—that a new and important campaign against Shashida had been ratified by the
Suffragat.
Vespasian stopped to regard the sacred lance. He had never held it in his hands. The lance’s tip
was sharply pointed, and a golden eagle adorned its haft. A gray and white eagle feather dangled
from shaft near the tip. Black leather strips were wound around its center, forming a tight gripping
surface.
Vespasian reached up and took the lance down from the wall to find that it felt right in his hand. As
he marched toward the Aedifficium doors, the entire Suffragat eagerly followed.
Flushed with victory, Vespasian pointed one hand at the massive bronze doors, and they opened
quickly. After purposefully striding out onto the massive Aedifficium landing with the Suffragat in
tow, he stood among the structure’s huge columns and looked down the hill and out across
Ellistium’s massive forum, the city’s great center of trade and commerce. While the Suffragat
gathered around him, Persephone and Lucius came to stand by his side.
As was always the case whenever the Suffragat was in session, an eager crowd had gathered on
the hill before the Aedifficium steps, waiting to hear news of the meeting. When they saw the war
lance in Vespasian’s hand, the crowd joyfully erupted, their rising cheers quickly attracting more
curious citizens. Soon the entire area was full to overflowing as the mob eagerly waited for their
emperor to speak. When Vespasian lifted the war lance above his head, the crowd went wild.
“The Suffragat has granted you a great campaign!” he shouted.
Gracchus smiled at Benedik. “It seems that our creation can do no wrong,” the lead cleric
whispered. “That man was born to end life.”
As Vespasian walked down the hill and toward the coliseum, Persephone took his arm and the
Suffragat followed.
In ways that even Vespasian could not have imagined, the die was cast.

CHAPTER VI

HIS NAME WAS ROLF OF THE HOUSE OF BRIGHAM, AND he had hunted the length and
breadth of Eutracia’s Hartwick Wood since his father had given him his first bow. Many said that
these glens and gullies were deeply enchanted by the craft. Rumor also had it that the woods
were the strict provinces of wizards and sorceresses and that these regions should never be
entered, lest an intruder come to some dark harm. It was also said that an ancient cave lay in the
woods, its opening long sealed by mysterious wizards. Rolf always smirked whenever he heard
those old wives’ tales. He had never seen such a cave, and nothing in these woods had ever
harmed him.
Even so, Rolf had more in common with the craft than he realized. Shortly after he was born,
some men in dark blue robes had come to his parents’ home and taken a drop of his blood for
examination. They had then informed his mother and father that he was of fully endowed blood. At
the time, such visits were not unusual, for all newborns were once tested this way. It was needed
for the nation’s birth records, the mystics had said.
Shortly after, an official-looking certificate, complete with a royal wax seal, had arrived by
messenger from Tammerland. Signed by two Directorate Wizards, it attested to the quality of
Rolf’s blood. Being unknowledgeable about the craft, his parents had thought little of the matter
and filed the parchment away. Over the years the document somehow escaped to wherever so
much of life’s flotsam seems to go and hide, never to be seen again. Taken up as they were with
the joy of rearing a child, Rolf’s parents never told him of the wizards’ findings. And because he
had never been trained in the craft, his blood showed no signature.
Most of the time, Rolf felt as safe here in these woods as he did on the front porch of his modest
farmhouse. He had been ten years old when his father had given him his first bow, and twenty-five
more Seasons of New Life had passed since. As he expertly moved across the mossy ground,
no sound betrayed him.
Rolf’s father was dead, but the birth of his son Dale had helped to fill the void left by his father’s
sudden passing. And as his father had done with him, Rolf started teaching the boy archery at the
age of seven. Now that Dale was ten, it was time for the young man to learn the ways of the
forest. During the last three years the boy had become an excellent bowman. But hitting a
standing target and killing a living creature were two different things, and that realization was not
lost on the nervous young hunter as he trod alongside his father. Although his hands shook, the
boy was overjoyed that this day of days had finally come.
It was late afternoon in Eutracia and the sun was starting to hide behind the tops of the trees. The
fading sunlight cast ephemeral beacons onto the forest floor, granting the woods the wonderfully
surreal appearance that only this time of day could bring. Soon the night creatures would start to
prowl and sing and the stars would compete for space in the dark night sky.
One hour ago, the great stag that Rolf and Dale were tracking had unexpectedly turned north. The
beast’s change in direction had been welcome, otherwise the two tired hunters would have been
forced to give up and head for home. They had caught a glimpse of their quarry only once, but that
had been enough to convince Rolf that the stag was the largest he had ever seen.
As night neared, Rolf hoped that he and Dale would overtake the deer soon. If so, he would let
Dale try to make the kill. If the deer was taken, Rolf would partly dress it, leaving the entrails
behind to make the carcass lighter to carry. He would then smear some of the deer’s blood onto
Dale’s face, signifying the boy’s first kill. His only real concern was to leave the forest before the
Hartwick wolves started their nocturnal prowling, for the scent of stag blood would draw them like
flies. As they walked side by side, Rolf turned to look at his son.
When Dale reached manhood he would be tall and lean. His hair was dark blond and his sharp
eyes were blue. Like his father, he wore a brown leather jerkin, matching breeches, and a narrow,
brimless hat with a jaunty pheasant plume pinned along one side. His arrow quiver was strapped
across his back, and he nervously held the ancestral family bow in his sweaty hands. A large
hunting knife lay in a sheath secured to his belt, and his knee boots were of soft brown leather.
The boy was desperately eager and equally worried about pleasing his father. He too had seen
the great size of the stag. If he missed, a chance like this one might never come again.
Stopping for a moment, Rolf knelt down on one knee and looked at the ground. He pointed at the
tracks that the stag’s hooves had left in the soft moss.
“There,” he said quietly. “Do you see how the tracks have become shallower and closer together?
That means that the deer has stopped running. The confused track pattern just ahead tells us that
he wandered about here for a time. Something must have caught his interest.”
Standing, Rolf looked around. After a quick search he found a telling sign. Four low branches of a
nearby hinteroot tree had been stripped clean of their berries. An even more meaningful clue was
that the same tree trunk was scarred where the stag tried to rub the velvet away from this
season’s set of new antlers. Rolf called Dale nearer. Narrowing his eyes and rubbing his red
beard, Rolf thought for a moment.
“What do these signs tell you?” he asked.
“That our stag was here,” Dale whispered back. “He ate the berries and scratched his horns on
the tree trunk.”
Rolf smiled. “How do we know that our deer did these things?” he asked. “It is not uncommon for
deer tracks to overrun each other’s. Perhaps we lost him, only to pick up the trail of a different
one.”
Dale thought for a moment. “No,” he answered. “He was here. We have not lost him.”
Rolf smiled. “Explain your answer,” he said.
Dale pointed to the ravaged tree trunk. “Only a buck could have done that,” he said, “because a
doe has no horns. And the stag we saw still carried his velvet. Odds are that this was done by
him rather than by another.”
“Well done,” Rolf said. “But this great confusion of tracks makes it difficult to decide in which
direction to go. How do we choose?”
Dale shook his head. “I don’t know,” he answered.
Rolf winked. “It has to do with the missing berries.”
“I don’t understand.”
Rolf smiled again. “He was hungry—he ate four branches full of berries. Deer find them delicious,
but the berries always cause them thirst. Unless I’m wrong, he’ll soon head for the nearest brook.
So we will go east for a time. It’s a gamble, but if I’m right it will be worth it.”
Changing course, Rolf started leading Dale east. As night encroached, they soon found
themselves standing atop a bank and looking down toward a swiftly running brook. Dale knew this
stream; he had fished here before. It was a good place for Eutracian black-striped trout.
The steep bank was lined with trees that made for good cover. Without being told, Dale knew that
it would provide an excellent place from which to shoot—if only the stag could be found. Guessing
that they were nearing their quarry, Rolf silently motioned that they should move on.
Walking stealthily along the ridge of the riverbank, the father and son soon found their stag. As
Rolf had guessed, he stood in the middle of the burbling stream, drinking thirstily. Dale quietly
slipped a razor-sharp broadhead from his quiver and notched it onto his bowstring.
Rolf put his lips near Dale’s ear. “He will lift his head soon, and suddenly,” he whispered, so faintly
that even Dale could scarcely hear him. “Then he will take a look around. When he does, don’t
move a muscle! Don’t worry—he won’t smell us because we’re downwind of him. Wait until he
lowers his head to drink again. That is when he will be most vulnerable, so draw your bow and
shoot. You know where to send the arrow.”
Just as Rolf predicted, as though the wary stag were trying to catch some predator off guard, he
suddenly lifted his head from the stream. His body was broad and his massive horns held six
majestic points on either side. Even to the experienced Rolf, he was a beautiful, wondrous thing.
As brook water dripped from the stag’s mouth, his dark eyes darted around and his nostrils flared,
testing the air. Finally convinced that he was safe, he went back to slaking his thirst.
Rolf knew that the deed now lay totally in Dale’s hands, and that all his teaching and care had
boiled down to this seminal moment. He watched his son pull the string back to his right cheek,
stretching the bow’s lacquered sinews nearly to the breaking point. Hoping against hope, Dale let
the arrow fly.
His aim was true and the arrow buried itself deeply into the stag’s flesh, just behind the right
shoulder where the beast’s heart lay. But the stag proved stronger than even Rolf had guessed.
As the deer twisted in agony, Rolf realized the mighty creature was about to run. If the wounded
stag could charge far enough before bleeding out, wolves might claim the carcass first and the
situation would turn deadly.
“Shoot again, son!” Rolf exclaimed.
Dale already had another arrow notched and ready. Without hesitation he let it fly.
The second arrow also found its intended mark, slicing into the stag’s neck. It severed a major
artery, and blood began to gush from the mortal wound. The stag struggled for several steps, but
his demise was near. He lumbered heavily from the stream, then fell to the grassy bank.
Rolf let go a deep breath. Dale’s two shots had been perfect. There would be other hunts that
would further bond him to his son, but this first kill would never come again. Nor could this initial
prize have been more wonderful. As he looked at Dale he had tears in his eyes. He placed one
hand on Dale’s shoulder.
“Well done,” he said simply.
“Thank you, Father,” the boy said. Despite his modest answer, he couldn’t have been happier.
They hurried down to where the stag lay. After warily kicking the animal to be sure that it was
dead, Rolf took out his hunting knife and bade Dale to do the same. Soon a pile of steaming
entrails lay beside their newly won prize.
Rolf looked again at the mighty deer. For several moments he considered quartering the animal
so that Dale could help him carry it from the forest. But because darkness was nearly on them he
decided against it. Carrying the deer would be backbreaking work, but if Dale helped hoist the
carcass onto Rolf’s shoulders, he believed that he could manage. This was no prize to abandon
to the buzzards, wolves, and flies.
“Come with me,” Rolf said, as he turned toward the stream. “We will wash our hands and knives
before we go. I want as little blood scent in the air as possible.”
As he bent down and washed his knife, Rolf looked downstream. About ten meters away, the
brook emptied into a deep pool before rushing onward. Rolf again looked worriedly up at the sky.
We need to get moving, he thought.
Just then he felt his knife edge bite into his palm, and a few drops of his blood dripped into the
river. He shook his head. The wound was more embarrassing than serious. He had been
careless, and he laughed at himself a little. As his blood ran downstream and into the pool, he
produced a rag from one pocket and wound it around his hand.
Dale scowled. “Are you all right?” he asked.
Rolf smiled. “Yes,” he answered, as he sheathed his knife. “Unlike your foolish father, you must
always be careful.”
Rolf decided that he would not mind bearing the short, jagged scar that would later form on his
palm. Long after Dale had left Rolf and his mother and started a family of his own, the scar would
always remind Rolf of this day. It will be a wonderful story to tell over and over again before the
fireplace, he thought. He put an arm around Dale, and the father and son started back up the
riverbank.
As they went, something behind them silently disturbed the surface of the downstream pool. Dark,
long, and sharp, two twisted horns surfaced. Next came the crown of a skull that was smooth,
hairless, and olive in color. As the horrific thing surfaced, its head and eyes showed next, along
with its long, pointed ears. The eyes were wide apart, dully opaque, and held vertical yellow irises.
Soon the short nose and wide mouth came into view. As the thing’s lips parted, a bright red
tongue and rows of sharp yellow teeth were exposed. A pair of snakelike incisors protruded from
the upper and lower jaws.
Silently, the hideous thing’s body emerged from the depths. Its olive-colored torso was human in
form, with muscular arms, a broad chest, and highly accentuated abdominal muscles. Each of its
eight fingers and two opposable thumbs ended in a dark talon. But as the rest of the creature
broke the surface and the thing hurried toward shore, any similarities between it and a human
being quickly ended.
From the thing’s waist down, its body was a scaled, snakelike tail. As the tail propelled the
creature across the surface of the pool, it whipped to and fro with amazing power. Like the thing’s
upper torso, the tail was olive in color, but it had dark spots all along its length and gradually
tapered to a forked end.
When it reached the shore, the monster silently coiled and reared upright like a cobra, its tail
supporting its humanlike torso and supplying the ability to lunge quickly. As it watched the two
unsuspecting hunters lift the stag carcass, it curiously twisted its head this way and that. The red
forked tongue slithered in and out of its mouth, savoring the evening air.
Suddenly another of them surfaced the pool, followed by another. Soon the dark water was
teeming with them, as they too swam toward the shore. As dozens of the things gathered and
reared upright, the first one looked at the others. After centuries of waiting, their time for killing had
finally come.
Without warning, the first creature lunged straight for Rolf and wound its strong tail tightly around
his midsection. Rolf cried out in surprise as he did his best to turn and see what had so suddenly
attacked him. His eyes widened in horror. As he tried to reach for his knife, he screamed wildly to
Dale to help him.
When Dale saw the terrible thing that had hold of his father, terror seized every fiber of his being,
freezing him in place. Finally he had his knife in his hand and he started slashing viciously at the
beast seizing Rolf. But the thing saw him coming. Opening its mouth, it let go a nasty hiss. With a
quick swipe from one arm, it sent Dale flying across the ground.
The thing’s tail suddenly tightened harder around Rolf’s body, snapping two of his ribs and
squeezing most of the air from his lungs. Terrified, Rolf watched his son fly through the air and
land hard. Dale tumbled over and over again, finally landing on his back. As Rolf watched Dale’s
body come to rest, an awful shock went through him.
During Dale’s fall, his hunting knife had plunged into his body. The weapon stood upright in his
chest, and blood ran down Dale’s already blood-soaked sides and onto the ground. An
experienced hunter, Rolf was well acquainted with sudden death. No one needed to tell him that
his only son had just been killed. A sudden, savage anger flooded through him, and with his last
bit of strength he finally grasped his knife and freed it from its sheath.
While the other curious monsters surrounded them, the one holding Rolf suddenly unwound its
tail and dropped him to the ground. Gasping for breath, Rolf stood shakily and slashed at the
thing, but it only hissed and then backed away with amazing speed. Before Rolf knew it the
monster arched its back and lunged again, this time picking Rolf up with its two muscular arms
as if he weighed nothing. Curling its tail beneath itself, and with Rolf still in its arms, the thing
levered its upper body several meters high, into another cobralike pose.
Rolf tried to again to stab the thing, but his reach was not great enough. As the monster held Rolf
before him, it turned its head this way and that, as if it was examining him for some reason. Then
the slimy tongue again appeared to test the night air and retreated into the awful mouth. His
strength gone, Rolf could do nothing but wait for death.
The creature reared back, opened its jaws, and bit savagely into the base of Rolf’s neck. It tore a
large chunk of muscle away, then spat it out. Knowing that Rolf would soon die, the beast let go,
sending him tumbling to the ground. Twisting its head this way and that, the thing hissed and
looked down at the dying woodsman. To Rolf’s added horror, the beasts started wantonly
slithering over and under one another in an orgiastic display of victory.
Amid the chaos, in another area of the pool the surface of the water quietly broke again to reveal a
different kind of being. This creature was unlike the many others still rising from the depths.
Striding from the pool, it walked up the riverbank to stand over the dying Rolf.
The being wore a dark, tattered robe that spilled down over his wrists and feet. So as to hide his
face, the hood of his robe was pulled up over his head. He gripped a gleaming silver staff in one
hand as he dispassionately watched Rolf suffer.
As his vision slowly dimmed, Rolf watched the strange figure raise his silvery staff. At once a
great shaft of azure light streamed from the staff’s end and went tearing into the forest. The
ground started to shake and Rolf heard explosion upon explosion as the craft mowed down
ancient trees and dense brush. Wildfires soon cast their orange-red flames into the dark night
sky.
As his azure bolt faded, the robed figure continued to point the staff toward the charred path that
he had cleared. Then he looked down at his servants as they hissed and slithered about in their
orgiastic frenzy.
“That way, my children,” he said quietly. “Our work here is done. Kill no more until you are again
ordered to do so.” His voice was deep and resonated with the power of the craft.
As the creature that had wounded Rolf slithered toward the path, the others quickly followed. With
their great tails snaking back and forth, their speed soon became as great as the swiftest horses.
Rolf turned in agony to see still more of the monsters rise from the water and slither up the
charred trail.
There had to be hundreds of them by now, he realized. If their rampage continued, the monsters
would soon number in the thousands. But his mind could not fathom how or why the terrible
things and their mysterious master had so suddenly appeared.
To Rolf’s further horror, the hooded figure dispassionately turned and levitated into the air. He then
hauntingly glided to a place just above the beasts’ onward-flowing column. With his dark robe
billowing in the wind and his strange staff gleaming, he flew down the path and shepherded his
newborn charges away.
While the forest fires crackled and smoke rose into the air, ever more of the newly born monsters
exited the pool to follow their master. As Rolf drifted toward death, he heard a distant Hartwick
wolf suddenly call out to announce another night of foraging.
How odd, Rolf thought, as he felt his warm blood spill out onto the ground. The wolves that once
worried me are now the only familiar part of this fiery, monster-strewn madhouse. It seems that
the old wives’ tales about these woods are true, after all. The craft really does live here…
For the last time, Rolf turned his head to look at his son. If he could summon enough strength,
there was one thing left to do. Reaching toward the stag carcass, with a trembling hand he
gathered some of the deer’s sticky blood onto his fingertips, then gently smeared it onto Dale’s
cheek. Goodbye, my son, he thought. You did well today.
As Rolf’s eyes closed for the last time, the faraway wolf again let go his plaintive cry.

CHAPTER VII

TRISTAN WAS THE LAST CONCLAVE MEMBER TO AWAKEN. He tried to sit up but his head
spun sickeningly, forcing him to lie down again. He soon realized that his weapons had been
taken from him and that Shailiha sat by his side. Searching his face, she smiled cautiously.
“So you finally decided to rejoin the world,” she said. “Welcome back. We were worried about
you.”
The princess sat on a chair that had been pulled up beside the sofa on which Tristan lay. He tried
to sit up but again his grogginess won out, forcing him back down. As best he could tell, he was
still in the Archives of the Redoubt.
“What happened?” he asked thickly.
Shailiha handed him a cup of hot tea. “Drink this first,” she ordered. “Abbey laced it with some
herbs. It will help bring you around.”
Tristan took the cup and gratefully sipped its steaming contents. After giving it back to his sister
he finally managed to come up onto his elbows and look around.
As he thought, he was still in the Archives. From somewhere across the room, the other
Conclave members were talking in concerned tones. Except for the Tome and the two Scrolls
having been released from the wizard’s box, the room looked much as it had before everyone
passed out. The oil lamps seemed to twinkle even more pleasantly, and mounds of disheveled
archives still lay on the floor. Then his vision finally cleared and things came into better focus. A
look of wonderment crossed his face.
The entire chamber and all six of its upper levels were sprinkled with a fine azure dust. It lay atop
the furniture, coated the displaced archives lying on the floor, and dirtied every oil lamp and
chandelier. Then Tristan realized why the lamps twinkled so prettily—their lamplight was filtering
through the strange material that dusted them. The dust shimmered with a life of its own, adding a
faint azure glow to the room.
When he looked back at Shailiha, he realized that her hair, clothes, and skin were lightly tinged
with the stuff. He looked down to see that he was similarly dusted. He collected some of the
strange material from his vest and onto his fingers to discover that it felt soft and fine, like highly
milled flour. Suddenly he remembered what Faegan had whispered, just before he blacked out.
“Subtle matter,” he said, half to himself.
Shailiha frowned. “What did you say?” she asked.
“He said ‘subtle matter,’” Wigg’s voice announced.
The First Wizard stepped closer. He had brushed most of the azure dust from his person but
shimmering bits still clung to him here and there. Kneeling, he placed his face near Tristan’s and
looked deeply into the prince’s eyes.
“Remain still,” he announced. “I doubt that you have been harmed. Even so, it seems that you
were the most deeply affected. Most of us awakened hours ago.”
Tristan was hungry for answers but he did as Wigg asked. Finally satisfied, the wizard stood up.
After placing his gnarled hands into the opposite sleeves of his robe, he let go a short smile.
“You’ll live,” he said drily. “We can only guess that because of the exceptional quality of your
blood, you were the most affected. Shailiha has been conscious only a short time as well.”
Tristan sat up on the edge of the sofa and looked around. As he did, some of the strange dust fell
from his clothing, shimmering beautifully as it drifted to the floor.
“Is everyone all right?” he asked.
Before answering, Wigg reached toward a nearby chair and retrieved Tristan’s weapons. The
prince nodded his thanks.
“Everyone seems fine,” the First Wizard answered. “You have been unconscious for six hours. At
first I considered using the craft to try to bring you around. But we are still unsure about what
happened here, so we decided to let you come around naturally, like everyone else. It was an
interesting experience, wasn’t it?”
“Six hours…,” Tristan whispered. “It seemed like moments.” A look of concern flashed across his
face. “What about the Tome and the Scrolls?” he demanded. “Are they safe?”
“Yes,” Wigg answered. “Faegan and the others are examining them as we speak. But as we
feared, freeing them from the wizard’s box seems to have changed them. I think it best that—”
Suddenly Faegan’s familiar cackle sounded from the other side of the room. It was full of the
same timbre it always held when the eccentric wizard was close to unraveling some puzzle of the
craft. Wigg raised an eyebrow, then beckoned the royals to follow him. Tristan stood gingerly and
strapped his weapons into place behind his right shoulder. Taking a deep breath, on wobbly legs
he accompanied Wigg and Shailiha to the other side of the room.
Jessamay, Faegan, Abbey, and Aeolus were sitting around one of the Archives tables and
conferring among themselves. The Tome and the two Scrolls lay before them. As Tristan, Wigg,
and Shailiha sat down, the prince regarded the precious relics. At first he couldn’t see what Wigg
had meant about the Tome and the Scrolls having been changed. Then he looked closer, and he
understood.
The massive Tome lay open at about its midway point. Subtle matter lightly coated the Tome’s
two exposed pages. Its covers of white tooled leather seemed unaffected, but its pages had
changed slightly. Until today, the Tome’s Old Eutracian script had been written entirely in black
ink, but now some of the letters glowed azure. Tristan could discern no reason why only certain of
them had been affected.
He then looked at the two Scrolls. The Vigors Scroll lay totally unrolled and stretched the entire
length of the table. It too was lightly dusted with subtle matter. Like the Tome, some of its
individual markings glowed. But in this case the glowing marks were selected symbols and
numbers that helped form the many hundreds of Vigors forestallment formulas. The Vagaries
Scroll was unwound. Although it too had been dusted by subtle matter, it seemed unchanged by
whatever phenomenon ravaged the Archives.
Tristan was about to speak when Faegan smiled and leaned across the tabletop. The wizard’s
mischievous gray-green eyes bored straight into his.
“Unless I’m wrong, you were about to demand answers about subtle matter,” he said slyly.
Tristan nodded. “What happened here?”
“First things first,” Wigg interjected. He raised a bony index finger and pointed it toward the ceiling.
“Look there,” he said simply.
Tristan and Shailiha raised their faces to see glowing azure lines of script hovering silently in the
air high above the tabletop. One line was far longer than the others, and Tristan recognized it as a
craft formula. Several more lines hovering nearby formed a short paragraph that was written in
Old Eutracian. The four lines wavered to and fro teasingly, as though they were begging to be
deciphered. Tristan and Shailiha returned their attention to the mystics.
“You all know that my brother and I can’t read Old Eutracian,” the princess said. “Where did those
lines come from? And perhaps more important, what do they say?”
“Taken as a whole, they seem to be comprised of various letters, symbols, and numbers that
have been selected from the Tome and the Vigors Scroll,” Jessamay answered. “When the three
relics were placed side by side, subtle matter was released from two of them. The amazing
things that we all saw just before we blacked out were only the start of the process. The subtle
matter seems to have searched the Tome and the Vigors Scrolls for certain letters, symbols, and
numbers, then formed them into the paragraph and the formula that you see hovering above us. It
appears that the Vagaries Scroll was not a part of that process.”
“What does the paragraph say?” Tristan asked.
Faegan looked up at the glowing words.
“Here lies the coded spell that will unlock so much,” he read aloud. “Enacted properly, it will help
lead the seekers toward their ultimate goal. After the image appears, travel with care, for many
perils await those who would follow the path.”
“That’s not much to go on,” Tristan said. “Like the Tome, its message is purposely obscure.”
As Tristan thought more about the paragraph, a sudden realization left him nearly speechless. He
stared blankly first at Wigg, then at Faegan.
“Do you mean to say that the Tome and the Vigors Scrolls contain some type of a code?” he
breathed. “And that the Ones used an ancient spell to make it appear from them?”
“That is exactly what we mean,” Faegan answered. “We also believe that this is the first time that
it has happened.”
“And simply placing the three documents side by side caused this phenomenon?” Shailiha asked.
“Correct,” Faegan answered. “The idea is quite clever. I believe that the Ones guessed that at
some point over the centuries, craft mystics would eventually come to possess all three
documents at once. As I quoted just hours ago from the Tome, the catalyst that started it all was
placing the three relics side by side and allowing them to remain in close proximity to one another.
I unwittingly did that when I conjured my wizard’s box. The spell was automatically enacted,
causing subtle matter to appear. We must rely on a few assumptions about what happened next,
because we were all unconscious. We think that the subtle matter selected the encoded letters,
symbols, and numbers from the Tome and the Vigors Scroll to construct the paragraph and the
formula that hover above us. The weaker our blood, the less we were affected. But we all blacked
out, and that’s a pity. The process by which the code formed would have been a fascinating one
to watch.”
“It seems that the Ones took a terrible risk,” Abbey protested.
“What do you mean?” Shailiha asked.
“She means that there was no likely way that the Ones could ensure that the three documents
wouldn’t fall into the hands of Vagaries practitioners first,” Aeolus answered. “Had that happened,
the results might have been disastrous.”
“Yet the Ones decided to chance it anyway?” Tristan asked skeptically.
“Apparently so,” Jessamay answered.
“But why incorporate a secret code into the relics at all?” Tristan asked.
Faegan cackled again. “Ah, why indeed?” he asked in return. “We believe that there is but one
answer. Do you remember how the Scroll Master said that you are not the first Jin’Sai to seek to
fulfill the destiny outlined in the Tome? Moreover, during your time with the Envoys of Crysenium
you learned what that destiny truly entails—to bring a lasting peace to Rustannica and Shashida.
We believe that this code was meant as a secret way of helping you and your sister to fulfill that
task. And if we are right about this being the first time that the code has been released, then you
and Shailiha are the first Jin’Sai and Jin’Saiou to claim this wondrous advantage.”
Tristan sat back in his chair, then he looked over at his sister to see that she was equally
overwhelmed. Yet another piece of this ancient puzzle has fallen into place, he realized. But what
will it reveal? He looked back into Faegan’s eyes.
“It seems that there is only one way to learn what the coded spell holds for us,” Tristan mused.
“We must enact the formula.”
Faegan’s expression hardened. “While that is probably true, we must be extremely careful,” he
warned. “Although it is overwhelmingly tempting, opening the spell could be the worst possible
mistake. It might kill us all.”
Tristan scowled. “I don’t understand,” he protested. “Why would the Ones provide us with a
harmful spell?”
Just then Tristan noticed that the First Wizard’s expression turn decidedly glum, as though some
old wound had been reopened.
“What’s wrong?” Tristan asked.
As Wigg took a deep breath, then laced his long fingers together atop the table, Abbey moved her
chair closer in a silent show of support.
“You’re forgetting something,” Wigg answered. “For some time we have suspected that Failee
possessed the Tome and both Scrolls. What we do not know—and might never know—is
whether she possessed them concurrently. If she did—”
“She could have been the first to discover the code!” Shailiha exclaimed. “If that’s true, she might
have altered it somehow, making it deadly for the next mystics who came across it!”
Jessamay shook her head in disagreement. “I know better than most how brilliant Failee was,”
she said. “But it seems unlikely that even she could corrupt a spell constructed by the Ones. I still
say that the Ones took a terrible risk that the code might first be found by Vagaries practitioners.
How could they install the spell and then just trust the documents to the world that way?”
“How could they, indeed?” Aeolus asked. “It might be that the spell holds built-in safeguards,
preventing it from forming among enemies. For example, one such protection might be that the
spell cannot be enacted in the presence of left-leaning blood. But we cannot be sure. Now you
understand the extent of the problem. The question is not how to enact the spell, but whether to do
so at all.”
“You still haven’t answered my question,” Tristan said to Faegan. “What is subtle matter?”
“We have long suspected the possibility of subtle matter, but until today we had no proof that it
existed,” Faegan answered. “It is mentioned only in passing in the Tome, making the prospect of
its existence all the more tantalizing. This is a great day in our study of the craft—as great, I
daresay, as the discovery of forestallments, the two Scrolls of the Ancients, and acquiring the
index that allows us to search the Scrolls at will.”
Pausing for a moment, Faegan cast his gaze around the table. “You are all familiar with the azure
light that accompanies any significant use of the craft,” he said. “Simply put, we believe that subtle
matter is that same azure light, converted into a tactile form that can then be ordered to perform a
mystic’s bidding on a molecular scale. The construction of a formula bringing subtle matter into
being certainly required power and knowledge of the highest order, and provides yet more proof
that it is the work of the Ones.”
Tristan shot Faegan a skeptical look. “Or of the Pon Q’tar,” he added quietly.
“Although we must admit that possibility, the likelihood seems small,” Jessamay said. “The Tome
and the Vigors Scroll were written by the Ones, and the Vagaries Scroll apparently contributed not
one of its letters, symbols, or numbers to the paragraph and the formula hovering above us.
There seems little chance that the Pon Q’tar or the Heretics had a hand in this.”
“But that is not proof positive, is it?” Tristan countered.
Faegan pulled thoughtfully on his beard. “No,” he answered quietly. “And there lies the unspoken
threat.”
“There is still something about all this that makes no sense,” Tristan said. “You claim that the
Vagaries Scroll lent none of its markings to the secret paragraph and craft formula. Yet it seems
that its presence was needed to start the spell working. If that’s true, then why would the Ones
incorporate the Vagaries Scroll into the spell at all—especially when they did not write that Scroll
and they seemingly had no control over its whereabouts?”
“Requiring the Vagaries Scroll’s presence is probably another safeguard,” Wigg answered. “They
wanted to be sure that Vigors practitioners were in possession of all three relics before the code
was revealed. That makes sense, because without the Vagaries Scroll, our enemies are far
weaker. Moreover, if Vagaries practitioners held the Scroll, they would only be two steps away
from discovering the code first.”
Tristan nodded his agreement. “The Ones were careful in their plan,” he said. “Whatever their
message has to tell us, it must be vitally important.”
Faegan smiled and gave the prince a knowing wink. “Correct,” he said. “It only makes things more
tantalizing, eh?”
“But what purpose does subtle matter serve?” Shailiha asked. “I understand that it helped to form
the encoded words above us, but surely that is not its only function.”
“You’re probably right,” Aeolus answered. “We will need more time for research, but we believe
that subtle matter might allow us applications of the craft that have previously been unavailable.”
“What types of applications?” Tristan asked.
“You and your sister have often seen azure bolts used in many facets of the craft,” Faegan
answered, “such as exploding objects or lifting them into the air. As you know, craft bolts are
mostly bright light, highly empowered by magic and ordered to do our bidding. Even so, bolts are
limited in their usefulness because they cannot permeate their targets on a molecular level. In
addition, they have little or no stealthy quality. We believe that subtle matter can do those things
and more, making it far more useful and perhaps more powerful as well.”
“I’m not sure that I understand,” Shailiha said. “How can subtle matter penetrate where light
cannot?”
“Imagine a simple sea sponge,” Faegan answered. “If I were to strike it with an azure bolt of very
low power, the sponge would singe, but not burst apart. Perhaps of greater importance, the bolt
would not truly permeate the sponge. But subtle matter would be a different form of energy, taken
to the molecular level. Put another way, think of subtle matter as if it held the same properties as
water. Unlike light, even a small amount of subtle matter would presumably insinuate itself
throughout the entire sponge, much the same way that the water would do. Then when its energy
was released—”
“Unlike the azure bolt, the subtle matter destroys the sponge from the inside out, rather than the
outside in,” Tristan interjected. “Because its bits are microscopic in size, it can presumably ferret
its way into places that other applications of the craft cannot.”
Tristan sat back in his chair, thinking. “If you’re right, the ramifications of this are immense,” he
added softly.
“Precisely,” Wigg said. “Like forestallments, subtle matter could forever change our use of the
craft.”
“Even so, we must address the greater question,” Tristan said. “Shall we activate the encoded
formula, or not?”
As if no one wanted to answer first, each member went quiet for a time. Finally Faegan broke the
silence.
“I believe that we should try,” he said. “But make no mistake—by doing so we place complete
trust in the Ones. There is simply no telling how many Vigors or Vagaries mystics owned the
Tome and the two Scrolls before all three finally fell into our hands. We can only hope that the
Ones incorporated enough safeguards into the spell to protect us from potential tampering by
Vagaries practitioners like Failee. As Tristan said, whatever the formula reveals must be of great
importance. Too important, I fear, to ignore.” Sitting back in his chair, he cast his gaze toward the
prince.
“What say you, Jin’Sai?” he asked. “Shall we proceed?”
Tristan knew that he could order the spell enacted, but he wanted the support of the Conclave.
Leaning forward, he placed his palms on the tabletop.
“I need everyone’s agreement on this,” he said, “but I will not demand it.” Pausing for a moment,
he cast his gaze around the table.
“Do I hear a negative note?” he asked. As the Conclave members glanced at one another, silence
reigned. Tristan nodded, then looked back at Faegan.
“It is agreed,” he said. “And may the Afterlife protect us all.”
Faegan nodded. Closing his eyes and raising his arms high, he started reciting the glowing
formula. Shailiha reached under the table and took one of Tristan’s hands into hers. He squeezed
it and gave her a reassuring smile.
Suddenly the glowing craft formula began to spin. As the formula spun, it coalesced into a tight
azure ball, crushing its symbols and numbers into illegibility. Then the ball glowed brighter, hurting
everyone’s eyes. Tristan raised his free hand to block the light, but it did little good. Suddenly the
azure ball exploded, shooting millions of microscopic bits of subtle matter into the air.
This time the subtle matter didn’t drift to the floor. Instead, it spread out to form a gleaming
rectangle that measured about two meters long by one meter high. Images began forming on the
rectangle as it hovered overhead. Moments later Tristan recognized what it was becoming, and it
took his breath away. The subtle matter was creating a great map.
Fascinated, the Conclave members watched the Ones’ spell unfold. Soon they could read the
words and images forming on the map.
Rustannica, the letters read on the upper half.
Shashida, they soon formed on the lower half.
The Borderlands, the subtle matter etched into the vast area in between.
I beg the Afterlife! Tristan thought. That is a map of the lands west of the Tolenka Mountains!
Transfixed, the Conclave members watched as the subtle matter went on to illustrate various
landmarks and geographical terrain, such as rivers, cities, mountains, valleys, and lakes. Just
when Tristan thought that the spell had finished its handiwork, some of the subtle matter drifted
toward the eastern side of the map. It collected onto an area southwest of Tammerland, in the
northwestern part of Hartwick Wood.
The subtle matter swirled about that spot to create another geographical representation. The
resulting landmark was small, dark, and oblong. Unlike the other landmarks, it glowed with a light
sage color, causing it to stand out from everything else. Something about its shape tugged at
Tristan’s memories.
Soon a series of smaller numbers took form on the map just below it. At first Tristan thought that
they might be another craft formula, but from his time spent aboard the Black Ships he soon
recognized the numbers for what they were. They’re a series of maritime coordinates, pinpointing
an exact spot, he realized. Then the subtle matter vanished, leaving its spellbinding creation
hovering in the air.
Even without the coordinates, Tristan instinctively knew what the small area represented. It was
the entrance to the Caves of the Paragon—the place where Wigg had first discovered the
Paragon and the Tome more than three centuries ago, and where Tristan’s only son Nicholas had
poisoned him while attempting to build the Gates of Dawn. Within those labyrinthine nether
regions also lay the red waters of the Caves and the mysterious Azure Sea—the wondrous ocean
that Nicholas had unwittingly set free during his enlargement of the caves, and about which the
Conclave still knew so little.
Tristan’s had long suspected that the Caves of the Paragon might hold the answers to his many
questions, and now every fiber of his being suddenly told him that he must brave those
mysterious caverns again, no matter the cost. As he felt Shailiha’s hand tighten around his, he
knew that she also grasped the Caves’ renewed importance.
Suddenly more subtle matter collected and swirled about the room. After a time the matter
gradually spread out. For several mesmerizing moments it formed a sentence in Old Eutracian
that hovered over the meeting table, teasing everyone with its meaning. Then the sentence
vanished, never to return.
Tristan gave Faegan an anxious look. The old wizard seemed so stunned that he couldn’t speak.
Tristan quickly glanced at Wigg, Jessamay, and Aeolus to see that they were similarly amazed.
He quickly glanced at Faegan again.
“What did the message say?” Tristan demanded.
Faegan could only summon a dumb, vacant stare. Desperately wanting answers, Tristan stood
from his chair and took Faegan by the shoulders. He gave the wizard a gentle shake.
Finally Faegan snapped out of it. Before looking into Tristan’s eyes, he blinked hard and shook his
head with astonishment.
“To reach Shashida,” Faegan quoted, “you must first cross the Azure Sea.”

CHAPTER VIII

THE BOY HAD SEEN ONLY TEN SEASONS OF NEW LIFE and he was terrified of what might
happen next. He never knew what awful things they might force him to do or to witness.
“Schooling,” the beings called it.
As he waited to be summoned he felt his warm urine run slowly down the inside of his left leg.
Although the room was not cold, he shivered. “What does not kill you makes you stronger,” one
of his strange masters had once said. But the boy didn’t want to become stronger—he just
wanted to die, so that he would never have to come here again.
The dank stone room in which he waited was small and bereft of light. His simple wooden stool
was the only furniture. He always regained consciousness in this terrible place before they came
for him. Then he would rise from the stone floor and sit on the stool to wait, with no memory of
where he had been before now, or where he always went afterward.
Oddly, he could remember nothing of his life outside these walls. Perhaps I have no other life, he
thought. As far as he could remember he had no name, no identity, and no other reason for living
save for his “schooling.” But when he was here, he could always recall his past sessions in this
place.
Sometimes he waited for hours in this nightmarish sensory deprivation; sometimes it lasted only
moments. In the end, the same being always came to collect him. There was no way to know
how long he had been here this time. Hours, he guessed.
He heard the door open and a narrow shaft of light stabbed its way into the room. The boy raised
one hand, partly to protect his eyes from the light and partly because he so dreaded seeing the
one who always came to fetch him.
The door open fully and a figure entered. He was dressed in a dark hooded cloak. As the boy’s
eyes adjusted to the light, he was reminded of his master’s hideous nature.
The being had no face.
The confines of his cloak hood held nothing but blackness. There was no head—just a terrible
empty void that somehow spoke orders to him. The voice was always the same. It was clearly
male and it commanded respect. The figure crooked an index finger.
“Come,” he demanded. “It is time.”
His legs shaking, the boy rose from the stool. As he walked toward the dark figure, the faceless
man placed one arm around the boy’s shoulder and escorted him from the room. The door closed
heavily behind them.
As always, the hallway was narrow and brightly lit, and the white walls, floor, and ceiling gave the
passageway a cold, sterile feel. White doors lined the walls, and each door had a golden handle.
The identical handles stretched as far as the eye could see.
The boy shivered again. Which door will my faceless master take me through this time? he
wondered. Will I be able to bear what lies on the other side? Or will I fail and disappoint him?
The mysterious figure finally stopped before one of the glistening white doors. As the empty hood
turned toward him, the boy cowered.
“Today’s lesson is one of the most important that you will ever learn,” the man said. “This time
you will not be asked to participate, only to watch. You will watch carefully, and do so over and
over again, if needed, until you grasp the concept. Do you understand?”
His voice lost to his overwhelming fear, the boy nodded.
“Good,” the faceless man said. “Follow me.”
The gold handle levered downward and the door opened. During each previous lesson, a different
room had been used, and today was no exception. The boy obediently followed his master inside.
The wood-paneled chamber was about eight meters square. Sawdust covered the sunken floor.
Thirteen seats overlooking the floor sat in elevated rows along one side of the room. Two wooden
doors lay on opposite sides of the short square wall surrounding the sunken floor. Eleven more
hooded figures in dark robes, their faces also missing, sat in the chairs. Two empty seats sat in
the front row. The air was cool and smelled pleasantly of the fresh-hewn sawdust.
The man led the boy to the empty seats and they sat down. Fearing what might come next, the
boy wrapped his arms about himself, then hunched over in his chair. The empty cloak hood again
turned his way.
“No,” the master said sternly. “Sit up like a man.”
The boy did as he was told. Born more of fear than the coolness of the room, goosebumps
started breaking out on his skin.
“You are about to watch something,” the faceless man said. “When it is over we will ask you to
explain its meaning. You will frame your answer in a single sentence. You will not turn your face
away or close your eyes, nor will you be allowed to leave this place until you have correctly
explained the point of the lesson. Each of us will be watching you. Do you understand?”
His voice still frozen with fear, the boy again nodded. Whatever was about to happen, all he
wanted was for it to end.
“Good,” the man said. “We shall start.”
The two opposing doors in the sunken wall slowly slid to one side. Only darkness showed
beyond. From behind one of the doorways came a soft growl. As he waited and watched, the
terrified boy again felt the warm liquid run down one leg. This time its presence unnerved him as it
reminded him this was not a dream, but real.
Fearsome black dogs suddenly charged through the opposing doorways and lunged across the
sawdust-strewn floor toward each other. On reaching the limits of their chains, they were abruptly
halted in their tracks. With their deadly muzzles only inches apart, drool ran from their mouths as
the dogs snapped and barked viciously, and sawdust flew as their claws dug at the floor. As they
snapped and lunged, the boy did his best to screw up his courage and look at them.
The hounds were huge, with sleek coats and muscular bodies. They seemed to be identical in
every respect. Cropped ears stood tall on either side of their heads. Their tails had been closely
bobbed, and their slanted eyes were a haunting yellow color. White teeth and fangs continually
flashed as the savage animals struggled to break free from their bonds and tear into each other.
The faceless master placed one hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“The two dogs are identical in every respect, save for one,” the mysterious master said. “It will be
your task to identify the difference between them. They have been intentionally starved and are
nearly insane with hunger. Each knows that his survival hinges on killing the other and eating him.
It is this way throughout all nature, even for us supposedly enlightened humans. Do you
understand?”
The boy finally found his voice. “Yes,” he whispered.
“Good,” the master replied.
No sooner had the faceless master stopped talking than the chains disappeared, freeing the
savage dogs. Terrified, the boy watched the two starving animals tear into each other.
At first neither dog could claim the advantage. The one on the right appeared quicker, but the
other one seemed stronger. As the dogs tangled, the boy soon lost track of which one was which.
With a vicious growl, one of them bit savagely into the other’s shoulder. Just as he did so, the
other dog tore into his opponent’s neck. Blood gushed from the fresh wounds to wildly paint the
sawdust-strewn floor. The boy desperately wanted to close his eyes, but his fear of his master’s
wrath far outweighed his revulsion, so he watched.
Because neither dog would release his grip on the other, the struggle would hinge on which one
lasted longer. Soon the dog whose neck had been bitten started to wobble from blood loss.
Sensing a victory, his enemy dug his teeth in harder, causing the wound to deepen. A renewed
torrent of blood gushed to the floor.
Soon the weaker dog’s front legs collapsed, followed by his hindquarters. Without waiting for his
victim to die, the victor removed his teeth from the neck wound. Amid the other’s dog’s desperate
cries, he started eating his victim alive.
After a time the victorious dog suddenly stopped feeding and lifted his head. The beast’s muzzle
was dripping blood, and bits of flesh lay trapped between his teeth. His yellow eyes bored straight
into the boy’s. Then the two dogs suddenly disappeared and the sawdust was refreshed, leaving
no trace of the carnage.
The faceless master leaned nearer. “What did you learn?” he asked.
Glad that the spectacle was finished, the boy did his best to think. He would do anything not to
have to watch another such battle.
“One dog lived and one died,” the boy offered quietly.
“True,” one of the cloaked figures said from behind him. This time the speaker was female. Her
voice was understanding, almost compassionate. “But that is not the answer we seek. Try again.”
“The dog that won was bigger,” the boy answered, not knowing what else to say.
“Like a poor marksman, you keep missing the target,” the man beside him said. “You must do
better, or be forced to watch again. The next time will be worse.”
The boy desperately wanted it all to end. His will broken, he felt salty tears run down his cheeks. “I
don’t know!” he cried out. “Please don’t force me to watch another contest!”
“Men do not cry,” the female voice said. “They lead. Answer the question correctly and you may
go.”
The boy wiped his eyes and thought hard about what he had just seen. At last it came to him:
“The winner attacked a weaker spot…and he stayed stronger,” he finally said.
Had it been possible, the boy would have seen his faceless master smile. “Well done,” the
mystery man said. “Now apply that answer to nature’s entirety, rather than just the two animals
you watched struggling to kill each other.”
As the boy thought, long moments passed. “Only the strong survive,” he said, praying that he had
finally been right.
“Yes,” the master answered. “You have grasped it. It is a lesson that you must always
remember.” But this time the master’s words sounded strangely hollow, as though they were
coming from far away.
“Only the strong survive,” he repeated, his voice echoing strangely through the room. “Only the
strong survive…only the strong survive…only the strong…”
His face and naked body covered with sweat, Vespasian Augustus bolted upright in his bed.
Instinctively grabbing the jeweled dagger lying on his nightstand, he launched from the bed and
charged toward the far corner of the room. As his naked skin touched the balcony draperies he
cried out, as if the harmless cloth were trying to entangle him and kill him. Although still asleep,
his eyes were wide open. In a manic haze he slashed at the draperies like a madman.
Persephone leapt from the bed to stare at her enraged husband. His recent dreams had been
terrifying, but nothing like this had happened to him before. An accomplished sorceress, she
correctly guessed that he needed to be awakened before he hurt her or himself. But given the
great strength of Vespasian’s blood, she hesitated.
Screaming again, Vespasian caught Persephone’s shadowy form out of the corner of one eye.
Believing that she was the threat he so feared, he raised his dagger and charged at her. Realizing
that she had no choice, Persephone sent a weak azure bolt directly toward the emperor.
Her bolt struck Vespasian squarely in the chest, lifting him off his feet and sending him crashing to
the floor some three meters away. Hoping against hope, she immediately ran to him.
Vespasian’s chest was singed, but he looked otherwise unharmed. The sudden pain had broken
his terrifying reverie and fully awakened him. With a groan, he dropped the dagger to the floor.
Desperate with worry, Persephone kneeled and took her husband in her arms.
For several moments she lovingly cradled her stricken husband. Then the silence was shattered
as royal bodyguards started pounding on the bedroom door. Persephone cleverly used her
nightgown train to cover Vespasian’s chest burns.
“Be still, my love,” she whispered. “I will protect your secret.”
She looked up to see that the magnificent oak door was starting to give way and soon it would
surrender altogether. It would do no good to try and call the legionnaires off, for the disturbing
noises coming from the bedroom had been too great to explain away.
In a hail of shattered wood and sprung crossbraces, the door finally gave way. Their swords
drawn, two legionnaires charged into the room.
“Is everything all right, my lady?” one of them shouted as he looked around warily. After
Persephone told him that Vespasian was unharmed, he turned to see the ripped draperies. Then
his eyes went to the dagger lying on the floor.
“Was there an intruder?” he asked.
“No,” Persephone insisted. “Your emperor suffered a bad dream—nothing more. I am quite able
to tend to him.”
The legionnaire looked closely at Vespasian’s drained face, then back at Persephone. “The
emperor looks ill,” he protested. “Does your grace wish me to summon a physician?”
Persephone shook her head. “No,” she answered. “Leave us now. First thing in the morning,
arrange to have the shattered door repaired. If I change my mind about the physician, I will call for
you.”
“As you wish,” the legionnaire answered. With that, the bodyguards saluted her and reluctantly
exited the room.
As Persephone looked down into Vespasian’s sweaty face, she watched him go unconscious.
Closing her eyes, she placed her palm to his brow. His mind had gone deep, but he was
unharmed. Then she looked around the ravaged room.
This was far more than a bad dream, she realized. The craft has been at work here. But why, she
wondered, and on whose orders?
Deciding to speak to no one about this until Vespasian regained consciousness, she stood.
Raising one arm and calling the craft, she gently levitated her husband’s body back onto the bed.
She would lie with him until morning. If by then he didn’t awaken, she would use the craft to gently
rouse him.
She knew that the only surefire way to protect Vespasian’s secret would be to have the two
guards killed. It was a pity, for she knew them well and they had only been doing their duty. Even
so, she couldn’t allow the slightest hint of this episode to surface—especially so close to the start
of Vespasian’s massive new campaign.
As she lay beside him, she silently gave thanks to the all-powerful Vagaries flame that Vespasian
had not unconsciously used his powers. Had that happened, he might have killed them both and
destroyed the entire royal residence. Once she knew that Vespasian was well, as a token of her
gratitude and devotion she would order the Priory maidens to slaughter a white bull in the
Rotunda. Still worried about her husband, she held him closer.
She would remain that way until dawn.

CHAPTER IX

AS TYRANNY OF THE HOUSE OF WELBORNE STOOD AT THE bow of the Tammerland, the
sun’s rays started warming her back. Her fleet of four Black Ships was heading west and fighting
a fierce headwind. Every hand had been awake all night.
With the Eutracian coast nearing, Tyranny could smell land. As usual, she planned to moor the
Conclave fleet in the Cavalon Delta bay, where the ships could reprovision and take shelter
against the unpredictable Sea of Whispers. It would be good to be home.
Despite how she loved being at sea, she would find an indulgent bath and one of Shawna’s
wonderfully prepared meals very welcome. Although Tyranny preferred living aboard her flagship,
Tristan had granted her personal quarters in the palace. When not at sea she often availed herself
of the royal luxury. Even so, not one Conclave member would dare to call her a landlubber.
The fleet of Black Ships had been at sea for the past week. Of the six original vessels, two had
been sunk while trying to attack Serena’s island stronghold. The late Vagaries Queen had
somehow conjured a massive tidal wave that surged west, smashing the Florian and the Malvina
into matchsticks.
The Tammerland, the Ephyra, the Cavalon, and the Illendium had survived, but each suffered
damage. Only the Tammerland had remained seaworthy enough to sail home straightaway; the
other three needed to stay in Parthalon for repairs. Tyranny and Adrian had sailed the
Tammerland home ahead of the others. After the Minion shipwrights declared the work on the
other three vessels finished, the remaining acolytes had piloted the ships home. While she
awaited the arrival of her fleet, Tyranny had prowled the palace like a caged tigress. When they
finally arrived, she took immediate action.
Although the Minion shipwrights were immensely skilled, they knew that their workmanship must
pass Tyranny’s muster. After giving the vessels a sharp visual inspection, she had insisted on a
full week of sea trials. Traax and four Minion phalanxes had accompanied her.
Adrian empowered the Tammerland, while the acolytes Astrid, Phoebe, and Marissa piloted the
other Black Ships. Tyranny pushed the women hard and ordered the Minions to perform rigorous
combat drills in the sky and on deck. During the trials the Minions’ seafaring fighting skills had
sharpened and the sisters’ abilities to fly the great vessels improved markedly. With the trials all
but over, Tyranny felt confident that she could give her Jin’Sai a report that soundly testified to the
fleet’s readiness. The report would also recommend that the same four Minion phalanxes be
assigned to the fleet on a continual basis, and that Adrian, Phoebe, Marissa, and Claire become
the Black Ships’ permanent pilots.
Tyranny looked northward. Their dark shapes glinting in the rising sun, the three sister ships were
also flying high over the waves. Sailing through the sky was an exhilarating feeling and one that
the Conclave privateer wasn’t entirely accustomed to. She had spent most of her life bounding
atop the waves, not flying over them. She smiled. Her life had been nothing if not eventful.
After a hard run of nonstop flight yesterday, she had ordered the four acolytes to empower the
ships all through the night as well. That had set a precedent. She hadn’t issued the harsh order
because she felt hurried to return home; rather, she needed to know whether the sisters could
endure the effort. Like the other Conclave members, Tyranny hoped that the threats to the Vigors
east of the Tolenkas had finally been quashed. Even so, Tristan had taken her aside and told her
that he wanted the acolytes and the Minions pushed to the limit during these trials. Like Tristan,
she suspected that the fleet would be instrumental in somehow crossing the Tolenkas and finding
Shashida.
Tyranny reached into her leather jacket and retrieved her new cigarillo case. It was solid gold and
inscribed with the letters TW. She removed a cigarillo and a match, then returned the case to its
resting place. She was proud to be a member of the prince’s Conclave, and her adventures had
made her the richest woman in all Eutracia. But she had come to realize that her seat on the
Conclave meant far more to her than her wealth ever could.
For the first time in her life she felt like a valued part of something greater than herself, and so she
had marked the occasion by buying the gold case. The privateer had been careful to avoid letting
her newfound wealth turn her head; the case was one of the few purchases she had allowed
herself. To this day her vast hoard of kisa—the gold coin of the realm—lay behind locked doors in
the depths of the Redoubt.
As she turned her gaze westward she stabbed the cigarillo between her lips. Any time now, the
Eutracian coastline would materialize and she would order the acolytes to put the ships down
onto the sea. Reaching down, Tyranny prepared to strike the match against one of her knee
boots.
“I can help you with that,” a familiar voice called out. Turning, Tyranny saw Sister Adrian
approaching. The acolyte was carrying two cups of hot tea.
As she neared, Adrian called on the craft. At once the tip of Tyranny’s cigarillo glowed bright red.
After inhaling a deep lungful of smoke, the privateer smiled.
“That’s a neat trick,” she said, raising her face to blow the smoke skyward. “If I had endowed
blood, I would ask you to teach it to me. It would save much time, not to mention the wear and
tear on my boots!”
Adrian laughed and handed Tyranny a teacup. “But I wouldn’t do it!” Adrian answered. “It would
only make poisoning yourself with those things all the easier!”
Tyranny snorted out a short laugh. After taking a welcome sip of tea she tossed the unused
match overboard.
During the past week, Tyranny and Adrian had become fast friends. Their relationship had
matured far beyond the fact that each woman served on the Conclave. Despite being opposite
personalities, they shared a common goal, and during the sea trials each had impressed the
other with her unique abilities.
Adrian was as modest and thoughtful as Tyranny was brash and outspoken. Tyranny’s defenses
were her wits and her weapons, while all Adrian needed to defend herself was the craft. Moreover,
the two women bore not the slightest physical resemblance to one another. They were an odd
couple, but one that commanded respect from friend and foe alike.
Clearly the prettier of the two, Tyranny was tall with an attractive figure. Her short, dark, urchinlike
hair moved with every turn of her head. Her wide, dark blue eyes rested above high cheekbones.
She wore tight striped pants, a short leather jacket with a high collar, and worn knee boots. A gold
hoop earring dangled from each earlobe. A sword hung at her left hip, and a sheathed dagger lay
tied to her right thigh. A brass spyglass hung across her chest from a leather strap around her
neck. Even her pungent cigarillos seemed to suit her rakish nature.
In contrast, the First Sister was short and plump. Her dark red acolyte’s robe, tied around the
middle with the traditional black knotted cord, did little to change that impression. She had a
pleasant but unremarkable face, soft brown eyes, and loads of curly sandy hair. What she lacked
in stature she more than compensated for with dignity, bravery, and an ever-growing command of
the craft. As the First Sister of the acolytes and a respected member of the Conclave, she was
quickly becoming a force to reckon with.
Tyranny took another sip of tea. “You and the other acolytes have done well,” she said. “I didn’t
know whether you could empower the ships all night, but you did. I also see that you four have
acquired the ability to fly the ships while walking about and doing other things as well. Before now I
had seen only Wigg, Faegan, and Jessamay do that.”
“Thank you,” Adrian answered. “The craft is much like anything else. The more one practices, the
better one becomes.” Reaching into her robe, she produced three small parchments and offered
them to the privateer. “You should know that I just heard from the other sisters by way of Minion
messengers. They are exhausted, but they should be able to empower the ships the rest of the
way to the coast.”
Tyranny decided that there was no need for her to read the messages. Instead, she nodded her
understanding and took another pull on her cigarillo. She turned to look aft, down the Tammerland
’s seemingly endless topside. Although Tyranny had been commanding these great vessels for
more than a year, they still held her in awe.
Each ship was an inky black color and built largely of magically enhanced hardwoods held
together with cast iron fittings. They had been constructed by the late Directorate of Wizards
more than three centuries ago, during the height of the Sorceresses’ War. The vessels were
largely impervious to battle damage and could survive tremendous storms. With ten full masts
each and spars as thick around as several tree trunks combined, every ship was easily quadruple
the size of a standard man-of-war.
Each vessel held eight full lower decks, allowing for the simultaneous transport of thousands of
Minion warriors and enough food, water, supplies, and weapons to fight a protracted sea
campaign. A massive hinged door took up the stern of each ship. The doors could be opened and
lowered to a safe distance above the waves much the same way a drawbridge could be lowered
from within the walls of a castle. Even the sails were black, and each was adorned in its center
with a bright red image of the Paragon. Hundreds of male and female warriors swarmed over her
topside, masts, and spars, and among her eight lower decks.
Despite their massive size, the ships’ greatest advantage was their amazing speed. They could
sail atop the waves like normal vessels, and when they did their progress was astounding. But
when taken aloft and empowered by a trained mystic, the sea drag on their hulls was eliminated
and their airspeed was even greater, easily rivaling that of the swiftest Minion fliers. At one time
crossing the Sea of Whispers had taken at least thirty days. Now the voyage could be done in
less than six. The ships could soar with equal efficiency over land.
On Tristan’s orders, four massive wooden cradles were being built on the palace grounds so that
the ships could rest in them and be easily maintained, supplied, and taken aloft at a moment’s
notice. When Tyranny had word that the cradles were finished, she would order the vessels
overland to their new resting places. She smiled wryly as she imagined the incongruous sight.
Like fish out of water, she thought, and sighed. With the ships stationed full time in their cradles,
she would probably give in for good and stay in her luxurious palace quarters permanently.
Just then the two women heard the warning bell ring out three times from the Tammerland’s
forwardmost crow’s nest. Because of the vessels’ great size, when a warrior shouted out from so
high above, his or her voice was often lost to the elements. Recognizing the problem, Tyranny
had worked out a series of bell signals. Three loud clangs meant that land had been sighted off
the bow.
The Minion scouts I ordered aloft two hours ago have finally sighted land, she realized, and they
have returned to inform the warriors manning the crows’ nests. Grasping her spyglass, she pulled
open its brass cylinders and looked to the west.
As was often the case at dawn, the Cavalon Delta bay was heavily shrouded in fog. Tyranny
lowered the spyglass, thinking. She had two choices. She could order the ships to fly in circles as
she waited for the rising sun to burn away the fog. They could then approach the coast with
confidence and moor the fleet. But she also knew that the acolytes needed rest, and she was
eager to get the ships down as soon as possible.
The second choice was to set the ships atop the waves straightaway, then take soundings as
they cautiously approached the coast through the fog. When the depth was right they would lower
the anchors and let the ships swivel into the wind, digging their anchor blades firmly into the
seabed.
As Tyranny considered her options, Traax walked up. He was accompanied by Scars, Tyranny’s
giant first mate, who had been with her long before she became a member of the Conclave. The
two had heard the warning bells.
Tyranny lowered her glass and looked at Scars. “Your opinion?” she asked.
Scars rubbed his chin, thinking. To those who did not know him well, his fearsome appearance
overshadowed his sharp, seafaring mind. At nearly seven feet tall he seemed more like some
freak of nature than a human being. His head was shaven and he wore only ripped trousers with
no belt. His feet were continually bare. When asked why, his only response was that bare soles
gave him a better feeling for the movements of the great ship. A ragged scar—the result of
wrestling sharks during his youth—ran down his forehead, near one eye and down the length of
his left cheek. Yet more such scars graced his arms and chest.
“I say we descend and take soundings,” he answered, in his unexpectedly erudite way. “The
sisters are near exhaustion. Should they lose control, the result might be unpleasant. Besides, my
sailor’s bones tell me that the fog bank does not extend all the way to the waves.”
“I agree,” Tyranny said. She turned to look at Traax.
The Minion second in command was an even more fearsome presence than Scars. Tall and
muscular, he was also clean shaven—something of a rarity among male warriors. Long dark hair
fell down behind his back and was secured with a bit of worn leather string. With his dark wings
folded behind his back, his leather body armor in place, and his dreggan and returning wheel hung
at opposite hips, everything about him suggested sudden death. To know Traax was to also know
of his legendary devotion to his Jin’Sai.
Everyone was eager to return to Tammerland, but Traax’s wish to make his way home ran
especially high. Just three months ago he had become a husband. His new wife, the
warrior-healer Duvessa, eagerly awaited him at the palace. These sea trials had been the first
time he had left her side since the wedding, and he missed her keenly.
The couple had been wed by the Jin’Sai personally. During the ceremony, Shailiha’s daughter,
Morganna, had been the bearer of the two jeweled pins that symbolized the betrothed warriors’
love for each other. Traax was a member of the Conclave, and Duvessa commanded all the
female warrior-healers, an elite cadre of fighting women who were expert healers as well. As
Tyranny looked into Traax’s eyes she understood how badly he wanted to get home. But there
was still work to do.
“Traax, when we reach the sea, have your warriors take soundings,” she ordered. “I want the
depth called out in one-fathom intervals. Have all the sails furled and tied off.”
Traax nodded. Tyranny knew the waters of the Cavalon Delta like the back of her hand. By the
changing depths alone, she would be able to gauge the fleet’s nearness to the coast and keep the
ships from running aground.
“Send three warriors aloft and have them deliver a message to the other acolyte pilots,” she
continued. “Tell them that we are going to descend through the fog and land on the waves. When
they see us start down, they are to follow. They must stay close enough to continually see us.”
She shot a sly smile at Adrian, then looked back at Traax.
“This maneuver will need some tricky flying to prevent the ships from colliding,” she added, “but I
think that the acolytes can handle it. Tell them to consider it their final test. When we drop anchor,
they are to do the same.”
“As you wish, Captain,” Traax answered. He turned on his boot heels and hurried off.
Tyranny turned back to Adrian. “You may start your descent,” she ordered. “Take us down slow
and level.”
“Aye,” the First Sister replied. “Slow and level as she goes.”
Adrian altered her hold over the craft and the Tammerland started a slow vertical descent. The
First Sister kept the ship perfectly level, so that the entire length of her keel would touch the water
at once and keep the ship from heeling over.
Tyranny looked at the sky. The sun had finally risen in earnest, and it would soon start burning
away the fog. Until now the Tammerland had been flying in the clear, but she would soon enter the
fog bank below.
Like Scars, Tyranny guessed that the fog did not reach all the way to the sea and that they would
soon break clear. Even if they were wrong, at this slow rate of descent the Tammerland’s landing
might be blind, but it would be gentle. The privateer glanced again to starboard to confirm that the
other three ships were following the Tammerland’s lead.
Soon the great ship entered the dense fog. As the fog crept higher it engulfed the hull, then the
topside, and finally the masts, furled sails, and spars. The fog soon grew so thick that Tyranny
lost sight of the other three ships, causing her concern. Perhaps I place too much confidence in
the acolytes’ abilities, she worried. Then she heard Minion voices hauntingly calling out in the
gloom. For the benefit of the four acolytes, they were announcing the distances between the
vessels. That must have been Traax’s idea, she thought, and it was a good one.
As the Tammerland descended, Tyranny, Adrian, and Scars grabbed hold of some nearby rigging
to steady themselves. More tense seconds ticked by. Without warning, the great vessel hit the
waves. She listed hard to port for a moment before settling down. Soon they heard the other three
Black Ships splash down, and it was over.
As the Tammerland started to drift, Tyranny turned to Scars. “Drop anchor!” she shouted. Scars
immediately ran to carry out her order.
Soon the two women heard the anchor chain rattling across the foredeck, and the anchor
splashed into the sea. The Tammerland swiveled hard to port before settling down again. Then
she tugged hard on her chain, digging the anchor blade deep into the sea floor.
Exhausted, Adrian closed her eyes and let go a deep breath. She had no doubt that her sister
acolytes were equally spent.
“Well done,” Tyranny said. “You have earned a well-deserved rest.”
Just then Traax and Scars reappeared. “The other three ships are successfully moored,” he said,
“and they are far enough apart so that they will not strike each other as they turn in the wind. Shall
we take our first sounding, raise the Tammerland’s anchor, and head for shore?”
Before answering, Tyranny turned and gazed westward. She smiled.
“That won’t be needed,” she answered.
The others turned to look. The fog was slowly parting. As it did, shafts of golden sunlight streamed
down here and there from the sky above, spotlighting the ships and the waves. It was a welcome
sight. Tyranny saw that the coastline was starting to appear. Raising her spyglass again, she
turned its lenses to the west.
The fleet was moored about a hundred meters from shore. She could see the lush foliage of the
delta and one of the three major tributaries that poured the Sippora River’s fresh water into the
sea. Several fishing villages clung to the delta coast, one of which lay dead ahead. Birmingham,
she realized.
Then she saw something odd on the rocky beach, and she froze. Hurrying forward, Tyranny
leaned hard against the gunwale and again raised her spyglass. At first she refused to believe her
eyes. But as she looked further, the terrible reality sank in. She slowly lowered the glass.
“I beg the Afterlife,” she whispered, her face contorting in cold rage.
Of her three officers, Scars knew Tyranny best. Even so, he had rarely seen such a look overtake
his captain’s face. “What’s wrong?” he asked anxiously.
Tyranny quickly beckoned them all forward. Reaching out, she took Traax by his shoulders and
pulled his face to within inches of hers.
“Save for a skeleton crew left aboard each Black Ship, I want every warrior armed and aloft this
instant!” she ordered. “Have them circle above until I order differently! I want my litter made ready,
and bring the other three acolytes here immediately! We’re all flying ashore!” Traax clicked his
heels and was gone in an instant.
Scars gave Tyranny another questioning look. The privateer’s only response was to remove the
spyglass strap from around her neck and thrust the scope into Scar’s beefy hands. The first mate
raised the glass and turned it toward the coast. After a time, he swallowed hard.
“Tyranny…” Adrian breathed. “What’s going on?”
The hard-nosed privateer reached for her gold case. After stabbing another cigarillo between her
lips and lighting it, she finally answered the acolyte.
“I suggest that you employ the craft and look for yourself,” she growled.
Adrian hurried to the gunwale. As he looked toward the coast, Scars stood stock-still beside her
like some great marble statue. Calling on the craft, Adrian augmented her eyesight and looked
westward.
Like Scars and Tyranny, the acolyte had already experienced much during her relatively short life.
But what she saw this day froze the blood in her veins.

CHAPTER X

WITH EVERY STEP GRACCHUS TOOK, HIS CONCERN mounted. The Oraculum had reached
out to touch his mind less than one hour ago, and he feared that her latest vision might be
disturbing. The war plan to take the Shashidan gold mines was nearly ready to submit to the
Suffragat, and he had worked, schemed, and killed for far too long to let his dream die now. With
one hand gripping the opposite shoulder of his white and burgundy robe, he hurried on.
The subterranean hallway he trod was dank and mildewed. Wall torches, enchanted to burn
forever and without smoke, showed the way and lent the twisting passageway a haunted feel.
Specially chosen centurions sworn to secrecy on penalty of death stood guard at every turn. As
the lead Pon Q’tar cleric hurried by, they snapped to swift attention.
The secret hallway that Gracchus navigated lay far below Ellistium. Aside from the guards, only
the Pon Q’tar and the Suffragat knew of its existence. Aeons ago, after selecting the site for the
new capital city, the Pon Q’tar had secretly built this subterranean labyrinth. It had come into being
while the magnificent capital had risen so many meters above it.
Gracchus soon came to a large square room built from cut stones. Before him lay a granite
landing that overlooked a wide subterranean lake. More torches burned in iron wall brackets. The
lake was dark, dirty, and deathly still. Three more centurions stood guard there. As they came to
attention, Gracchus hurried to the edge of the landing.
“Bring me the boat,” he ordered.
At once a centurion saluted, then walked to the far end of the room. Reaching down, he untied the
line that secured a common wooden rowboat to the landing. He towed the boat to a place before
the lead cleric.
Gracchus walked down a short series of steps cut into the landing and climbed into the boat. The
centurion tossed the line into the boat, setting it free. Gracchus took up a wooden staff from the
bottom of the boat and started to pole his way across the dank lake.
As he went, here and there the putrid water rippled ominously. Good, he thought. The deadly
creatures that he and his fellow Pon Q’tar members had conjured so long ago to protect what lay
on the other side still lived. So far, their savagery had not been needed. Still, he was glad to know
that they were there, constantly searching the water for intruders.
The boat trip would not take long. He knew the way well, for he had come here thousands of times
before. Soon he saw his destination. As he reached the opposite side he tied off the boat and
walked up another series of short steps.
Like the preceding chamber, this one was square in shape and built from rough-hewn stone
blocks. More wall brackets held burning torches. As Gracchus mounted from the landing, a
startled rat squeaked and scurried off into the gloom.
Finally alone, Gracchus walked to the far wall. A casual observer would have seen nothing
unusual about its many rough-hewn stones. After choosing one unremarkable block from among
thousands, Gracchus summoned the craft.
At once the stone glowed bright azure. Gracchus then caused a small incision to form in his right
wrist. As he liberated one drop of his endowed blood, it hovered before him and twisted itself into
his unique blood signature. He calmly watched the incision close and the resulting scar
disappear. He then sent the blood signature flat against the glowing stone.
The enchanted stone quickly recognized the cleric’s blood. Soon a bright azure line formed down
the center of the wall and the two halves parted, allowing Gracchus access to the chamber
beyond. He hurriedly entered, and the walls scratched closed behind him. The subsequent
chamber was as pristine as the preceding one was dank.
As Gracchus walked into the room he was comforted to see that nothing had changed. And why
would it? he asked himself. I have been the only visitor to this place for thousands of years. The
being I imprison here will never reclaim her freedom, despite the immense power she once
commanded.
The chamber was large and well lit. Its four walls and ceiling were built from finely hewn alabaster
blocks. The floor was solid onyx, polished to a magnificent sheen. Solid gold wall brackets held
engraved oil globes, their flames combining to cast a soft glow over the room, and the air was
warm and odorless. But the chamber’s beauty meant little, he knew. The real reason for this
secret place stood across the room.
The entire far wall glowed with a soft azure hue. Its depths seemed limitless. Curved shards of
swirling white light continually wheeled and streaked amid the azure aura that imprisoned them.
The strange masterpiece of the craft emitted a soft roar and a crackling sound, much like a
blazing fire.
As he regarded the mesmerizing sight, Gracchus was reminded of how long it had taken him and
his fellow Pon Q’tar clerics to create it. Fifty years, to be exact—ten years of ceaseless toil to
refine the formulas, then forty more to construct this chamber, the two landings, the lake, and the
secret tunnel that led here from aboveground. The skeens who had been forced to do the
construction were long dead and had taken this place’s secrets with them to the Afterlife.
The lead cleric raised his hands and called the craft. At once the glimmering wall started to slide
closer. As it neared, a transparent roof and equally glassy sidewalls formed, ensuring that the
azure light remained imprisoned. The amazing construct slowed, then stopped about three
meters from where he stood.
The result was a glistening cube that measured eight meters square, the entire space within it
filled with azure light and darting white shards. Despite how many times Gracchus visited here,
he always found the cube a wondrous thing to behold.
The lead cleric stepped closer. “Show yourself,” he ordered.
From the foggy depths a woman emerged. Her eyes and wrinkled skin were so old that they were
nearly dust. Her long, brittle hair was the purest white and flew about wildly. Her dark eyes darted
about the room, then stared straight at him, boring their way into his own. The tattered gray gown
she wore had once been pure white. Like her hair, its tattered ends swirled in the azure mist.
Wrinkled arms and hands lay quietly by her side while her bare feet dangled just below the hem of
her tattered gown. As she hung weightless in the cube, she said nothing.
“You touched my mind,” Gracchus said calmly. “What have you seen on the other side?”
“The Orb of the Vigor has shown me much, lead cleric,” she said. Her ancient voice was
tremulous, hollow. “Two more important manifestations of the craft have occurred east of the
Tolenkas. You are fortunate—I had barely enough energy remaining to witness each. You will be
pleased to learn of one. The other will doubtless cause you great distress.”
Gracchus eagerly stepped forward. “Tell me,” he ordered.
A short smile crossed the Oraculum’s lips. Gracchus guessed that she would deliver the
distressing news first, because she would enjoy it. He and the woman had been enemies for
aeons. Even so, in a perverse way they needed each other.
“The Conclave has discovered subtle matter,” she said. “Although the Jin’Sai’s mystics cannot yet
employ it, it seems only a matter of time until they learn. It might become a potent weapon for
them.”
Gracchus was stunned. “How did this happen?” he breathed. “Their knowledge of the craft is not
sophisticated enough to have done this on their own!”
“It was revealed to them through a secret spell incorporated by the Shashidans into the Tome and
the Scroll of the Vigors aeons ago,” the Oraculum answered, her gown and hair floating about her
as she hovered in the azure light. “Even I did not know of its existence. When Faegan placed the
three relics side by side for safekeeping, the subtle matter was released.”
“Subtle matter is never released without need,” Gracchus mused. “What purpose did it serve?”
Reveling in his discomfort, the Oraculum smiled again. “You’re right,” she said. “The ancient spell
that was enacted did far more.” She went silent again, purposely allowing the tension to build.
“Tell me, you half-dead bitch!” Gracchus raged. “Or I will kill you here and now!”
“No, Gracchus,” she answered. “We both know you won’t do that. You might torture me. But you
can’t afford to kill me—especially not now, when there is so much left for you to learn.”
Seething with rage, Gracchus shook his fist at her. “Tell me!” he screamed, “or I will torture you!
And I’ll enjoy it!”
“Very well,” she said. “The subtle matter has told the Jin’Sai that he must traverse the Azure Sea
to reach Shashida. As yet, he and his Conclave do not know how that is to be accomplished. But
the Jin’Sai’s wizards are clever. If they learn enough about subtle matter, they might devise a way
to cross the sea. The Tolenka Mountains on which you have so long relied to keep the Jin’Sai and
the Jin’Saiou trapped on the other side of the world might no longer be the obstacle that they once
were.”
“But how can that be?” Gracchus breathed. “Its expanse is too vast and its dangers too great!
Even our strongest spells cannot overcome its many obstacles!”
“I can only guess that the subtle matter will somehow lead the way,” the Oraculum explained. “If
the Jin’Sai finds it, I do not know what might follow. Nor does the Jin’Sai know. But there is more
to it. The subtle matter also supplied the Conclave with a detailed map of the territories west of
the mountains. My guess is that the map is aeons old and might well be flawed, given the shifting
changes in the boundaries that you say have taken place over time. Even so, it should be of great
help to them should they somehow cross the sea.”
For several moments all Gracchus could do was to stare blankly down at the onyx floor, his mind
a whirl of misgivings. He could not have imagined worse news. He finally collected himself and
looked the Oraculum in the eyes.
“And because all my Vagaries allies in the east have been defeated, there is no way for me to
stop the Jin’Sai from trying,” he whispered, half to himself.
At first the Oraculum did not answer as she floated silently before him, imprisoned in the mist.
“That is not entirely true,” she finally replied.
Her heart broke as she said the momentous words. Even so, she had no choice but to tell him.
Gracchus could easily torture the information from her, and he had often done so by magically
altering the environment of her bizarre prison. Many centuries ago when she was younger and
stronger, she had tried lying to him about what she saw on the other side of the world. But he had
always found out and the torture started. Now she was too feeble to survive it. To stay alive, her
only course of action was to tell the truth—no matter how much it grieved her to do so.
“You’re referring to your second sighting, aren’t you?” Gracchus demanded. “Tell me of it!”
The Oraculum sadly closed her eyes. “You do possess a new Vagaries ally on the other side,”
she said. “If the legend is true he has the ability to commune with you, for Failee’s last attempt to
find the needed forestallment formula was successful. To order him to do your bidding, you need
only to reach out and touch his mind.”
Sensing a glimmer of hope, Gracchus took another step closer. “Who is he?” he demanded.
“The Viper Lord has risen,” she answered, “as have his many servants. The legend seems true,
after all. Failee’s genius for reaching out from the dead to influence the here and now continues to
know no bounds.”
Gracchus’ heart leaped in his chest. “How did the Viper Lord come into the world?” he asked. “Did
it happen as we always suspected?”
The Oraculum nodded. “A few drops of left-leaning endowed blood were inadvertently released
into a spring in Hartwick Wood, thereby enacting the spell,” she explained. “As we know, during
the Sorceresses’ War, Failee had hoped to end the war there. But the Directorate did not take the
bait and chose to fight elsewhere. Even so, what little blood was spilled was enough. Since your
rebellion against Shashida, whenever an important use of the craft occurred on the other side, I
have witnessed it. Like you, I command the gift of Consummate Recollection, and I can easily
recall the day that Failee enchanted the waters.”
Gracchus’s mind started racing. He had long known that the Viper Lord might rise, and he
welcomed the coming of Failee’s long-lost creation. But the discovery of subtle matter by the
Conclave and the idea that Tristan might try to cross the Azure Sea posed new threats of dire
proportions—especially now, when he and the Pon Q’tar were so close to realizing their dreams.
But if the Viper Lord could intervene and keep the Jin’Sai from crossing the sea, perhaps the
campaign to take the Shashidan gold mines and the rest of his secret plan could still be salvaged.
In any event, he would inform Vespasian only of the Viper Lord and not of the Conclave’s
discovery of subtle matter, for if Vespasian learned of the latter, he might choose to postpone the
new campaign. Gracchus looked back at the Oraculum as she hovered in her beautiful prison.
“Where is the Viper Lord now?” he asked.
“I can only tell you that I saw him and his servants flee Hartwick Wood,” she answered. “They
travel northeast, presumably searching for more populated venues. Without direction from a
higher Vagaries power, the Viper Lord is doubtless searching for his former mistress, and
committing his preordained mayhem as he goes. When he does not find her, he will assume her
to be dead. In her name he will continue to blindly seek revenge against all of Eutracia. With each
victory his servants are systematically removing certain organs from endowed corpses. As you
know, revenge was one of the First Mistress’s greatest motives. If she could not win, she ensured
that those who had bested her would continue to suffer her wrath. Unlike the failed Swamp
Shrews of Parthalon, the Viper Lord might finally succeed in carrying out her vengeance.” The
Oraculum paused for a moment as the azure mist swirled about her.
“When the Jin’Sai learns of the Viper Lord, he will face a difficult choice,” she continued. “Will he
lead his Minions against this new threat, or will he take up the larger challenge and try to cross the
sea? If the Jin’Sai succeeds in reaching Shashida, the Orbs cannot follow him. I will no longer be
able to monitor the Jin’Sai, or any other Vigors mystics he might bring with him. If he reaches this
side of the world, the only way to find him is by seeking out his all-powerful blood. Given
Shashida’s immense size, doing so seems highly unlikely—even for you and your fabled Pon
Q’tar.”
Gracchus turned away from the Oraculum and he started angrily pacing the room. He needed
time to think and he didn’t want to endure the Oraculum’s self-satisfied gaze. His thoughts soon
turned to the recent past.
Although Failee never possessed the convoluted forestallment that allowed her direct communion
with the Heretics or with the Pon Q’tar, by way of the Oraculum the Vagaries masters had
monitored the First Mistress’s valiant struggles with great hope. But now it seemed that she had
perfected one aspect of the formula, allowing Gracchus to touch the Viper Lord’s mind. That was
at least one stroke of luck that he would soon make use of. Even without the Pon Q’tar’s help,
Failee had nearly defeated the wizards and destroyed the Vigors east of the Tolenkas. She was
indeed brilliant, Gracchus thought. Given enough time and training, she might even have risen to
join the ranks of the Pon Q’tar.
Had Failee won the Sorceresses’ War, the Vagaries east of the Tolenkas would have finally been
victorious. But it was not to be, for the Directorate prevailed. Despite Failee’s well-planned attack
on Eutracia three hundred years later and her brilliant plan to kidnap Shailiha and turn her into her
fifth sorceress, Tristan had killed her and the entire Coven. Worse, for the first time a reigning
Jin’Sai was threatening this side of the world, and had at his disposal knowledge and weapons
more potent than any Jin’Sai before him. That bastard seems to have nine lives, Gracchus
fumed.
The lead cleric knew that this news was a potential disaster in the making. But the unexpected
coming of the Viper Lord might help counter that. The Oraculum was right—Tristan would soon
face a difficult choice. Gracchus found himself hoping that the Jin’Sai would live up to his
impetuous reputation and battle the Viper Lord first. That might temporarily keep him from finding
a way to cross the Azure Sea and interfering with the Pon Q’tar’s scheme. Even better, the Viper
Lord might well kill him.
Another thought crossed Gracchus’ mind. He stared at the Oraculum.
“Can you reproduce the map that the Ones supplied to the Conclave?” he asked.
The Oraculum nodded. “But what good will that do you?” she asked. “It won’t stop the Jin’Sai from
crossing the Azure Sea.”
Fueled by the bad news and his growing frustration, Gracchus’ anger toward the Oraculum finally
burst open. “Just do it, bitch!” he shouted. “I have my reasons!”
“Very well,” the Oraculum said. As she continued to hang weightless in the glowing cube, she
raised her arms and closed her eyes.
An exact replica of the map given to the Conclave began to form beside her. As it materialized, it
hung weightless in the azure mist. Gracchus soon saw that the sage-colored diagram was
indeed a detailed representation of the lands west of the Tolenkas. Parts of western Eutracia
were also shown. As the Oraculum had guessed, certain areas of the map were out of date. The
Oraculum was right about something else, too, he realized. If the Conclave somehow crossed the
Azure Sea, even this flawed portrayal would prove invaluable to them.
He then looked for the Caves. A series of coordinates lay just below the oval mark. After
committing the entire map to memory, Gracchus nodded, and the Oraculum caused the map to
vanish.
“Do you believe that the Jin’Sai will try to cross the sea?” he asked.
“I do not know,” she answered. “I see only what the orb sees—and only when an important act of
the craft occurs. I cannot predict the future for you, Gracchus. I can only tell you what has already
happened on the other side of the world. That is how it has been since the day you imprisoned me
in this glowing cage.”
The Oraculum smiled again. “Will you inform the Blood Royal of these recent developments?”
she asked.
“That’s none of your affair!” the lead cleric exploded. “I am done with you for now! When you have
something else of importance to tell me, you are to reach out and touch my mind immediately!”
Gracchus raised his arms and called the craft, causing the glowing azure cube to retreat. As it
went, its transparent roof and sides melded into the rear wall. Soon all that remained of the cube
was its glowing face lying flush against the far alabaster wall. The Oraculum gradually retreated
into the mist, then faded from view altogether.
Gracchus anxiously rubbed his brow, thinking. Not since Rustannica broke away from Shashida
had so much been at stake. The next few months would forever determine the future of the world.
There was much for him to do and too little time in which to do it.
Gracchus called the craft and commanded the great doors behind him to part. As they scratched
their way open he walked swiftly from the chamber. When the doors closed, the torches in the
chamber went out, leaving only the strange azure glow and the whirling white shards to pierce the
gloom.
Faced once more with her overpowering loneliness, deep within the azure cloud the Oraculum
sadly hung her head. As the heart-rending guilt washed over her for having told the monstrous
Pon Q’tar cleric so much, she wept.

CHAPTER XI

TYRANNY, SWORD IN HAND, CAST HER GAZE ALONG THE rocky shore. The morning sun
had finally risen in earnest. As the remaining fog burned away, the scene before her only
worsened. Taking a deep breath, she lowered the tip of her sword.
What a strange thing death is, she thought. How full of life a person can be one moment, then
gone the next, leaving the body behind to become an empty, decaying vessel. Do we really
possess souls? she wondered. If so, where do they go? It seems that even the wizards cannot
answer such questions. She sighed and shook her head. If the mystics did know, they weren’t
telling.
She looked at Sister Adrian to see that the acolyte was crying and her face was covered by her
hands. But Tyranny had no such tears, for the rage she felt easily overcame her grief. She had
seen much during her struggles against the Vagaries, but nothing equaled the sheer brutality of
this.
Hundreds upon hundreds of Eutracian citizens had been systematically murdered, their corpses
lining the shore for as far as the eye could see.
The victims were impaled on long staffs, freshly cut from a nearby beechwood grove. Even
women and children had been brutally killed. The bodies were naked, bloody, unmoving. Human
entrails lay scattered far along the shore, telling Tyranny that the carnage had taken place over a
wide area. There was so much blood that she could scarcely tell that the rocks beneath her feet
were black.
She saw no discarded weapons or clothing, suggesting that these poor souls had been stripped
first, then brought here to be killed, and that most had died without a fight. Fearing that they had
come from Birmingham, she had ordered two Minion phalanxes to immediately fly there and
investigate. As Tyranny and her group stood staring, not one of them spoke, the only sounds
coming from the restless waves as they lapped at the shore. As the fog lifted for good, the extent
of the disaster was fully revealed.
Row after row of impaled corpses lined the shore as far as the eye could see, the stakes holding
the victims’ bodies upright. Their sharpened tips had been viciously shoved into the victims’
groins, then threaded up through their abdomens and forced out near their collarbones. The lower
end of each stake had been plunged into the rocky shore. Each corpse’s hands had been raised
over the head, then clasped together and pierced through.
Shorter branches had been lashed to the stakes just below the victims’ feet and hands, keeping
the corpses from sliding down the poles. Every corpse’s abdomen had been systematically
disemboweled from the throat to the genitals. In some cases their internal organs dangled from
the gaping wounds. Some stretched so far as to reach the ground.
Tyranny came to stand before an impaled young woman. She had been lovely, with blond hair and
a strong jawline. A look of terror was frozen on her face. Tyranny sheathed her sword and
reached up to gently close the woman’s eyes. As she did, Traax, Scars, Adrian, and the other
three acolytes approached.
Tyranny turned toward Traax. “Have our scouts reported back?” she demanded.
Traax shook his head. “Given that you ordered every building to be searched, it will take some
time. My warriors will not report until either they find who did this or their search is otherwise
finished.”
“And the other two phalanxes that I ordered to ring this area?” she asked. “What of them?”
“They continue to search,” Traax answered, “but they have found nothing. Unless the killers
remained behind in Birmingham, they are probably long gone.”
Tyranny turned to look out to sea. As though they were eager to take sail again, her four Black
Ships tugged at their anchors. Several dozen fishing boats lay moored between the shore and the
fleet, and two long wooden piers jutted from the shoreline into the restless waves. The nearby
fishing village of Birmingham had been instrumental in supplying the Black Ships with goods and
provisions whenever they moored in this wide delta bay. But as she saw dark smoke rising in the
west, Tyranny feared that Birmingham was no more.
The privateer looked skyward. Her instincts told her that the day would become sunny and hot.
Swarms of black vultures already wheeled overhead, and the greedy birds would soon swoop
down to collect their next meal. Unless something was done, there would be much for the birds to
gorge on.
Tyranny looked at Adrian. “Was the craft at work here?” she asked.
Adrian came to stand before the woman whose eyes Tyranny had just closed. The acolyte spent
some time looking at the gaping abdomen. She pursed her lips thoughtfully.
“At first I wasn’t sure,” she answered, “but on closer examination, I believe that it was.” Adrian
pointed to the wound and beckoned everyone nearer.
Tyranny soon saw what the acolyte was talking about. The privateer was no mystic, but she had
seen enough azure bolts used to recognize the telltale marks that they left behind. The edges of
the wounds were precise and singed black. Tyranny pointed at them.
“These wounds were caused by the craft, weren’t they?” she asked.
Adrian nodded. “Yes,” she said. “Do you see how smooth the cuts are? I know of no traditional
weapon that can produce such perfect incisions and singe marks at the same time.”
Traax shook his head. “With all due respect, First Sister, you’re wrong,” he countered. “There is
such a weapon, and I know the warrior who wields it.”
Tyranny nodded. “You’re right,” she said. “The warrior is Tristan, and the weapon is his dreggan.
During the fight to take the Recluse, when he called on his gift of K’Shari his dreggan glowed. It
sliced though his enemies as if they were made of paper and caused these same burns. But
does that mean that there is another K’Shari master roaming Eutracia with the same skills?”
Adrian again turned her attention to the corpse. She bent down and looked at the internal organs
lying at the victim’s feet. Lifting the hem of her robe, she trod through the blood and regarded the
next impaled victim in the same way. This time her inspection became more focused, as if she
was searching for something specific. She quickly moved on to look at two more corpses.
Thinking, she walked back to stand beside Tyranny. There was a puzzled look on her face.
“What is it?” Tyranny asked.
Adrian scowled. “Aside from the obvious, two of the four victims that I just examined have another
thing in common,” she mused.
“What are you talking about?” Scars asked.
As though she couldn’t believe what she was about to say, Adrian shook her head.
“They are missing their livers,” she said. “Like the exterior wounds, the cuts that allowed their
removal are equally precise and darkly singed.”
Tyranny shot Adrian a skeptical look. “Show me,” she ordered.
Adrian pointed to the dead woman’s gaping wound. Some organs were missing and dangled
toward the ground. “Look there,” she said. “Do you see those interior cuts? They allowed the
removal of the liver.”
“How do you know that only the liver is missing?” Tyranny asked.
Adrian gave Tyranny a rueful look. “All her other organs are accounted for,” she said quietly. “They
lie at your feet. It is the same with the others. Only their livers are gone.”
Tyranny scowled and ran one hand through her hair. “What in the world…” she breathed. “You are
that conversant with human anatomy?” she asked.
Adrian nodded. “All acolytes are. It’s part of our training. The craft has to do with blood; blood has
to do with the organs; and the organs—well, you see.”
Tyranny shook her head again. She was starting to understand these horrors less and less. It
was an unsettling feeling.
“But why would some attacker want their livers?” she asked incredulously. “Does that also have
to do with the craft?”
“Probably,” Adrian answered. “On the anatomical level, magic has much to do with the liver. A
person’s entire blood supply—be it endowed or unendowed—flows through it. We might be
dealing with something never seen before. Either way, only our more senior mystics might
answer that. I strongly suggest that we take several of these corpses to Tammerland. Faegan will
certainly want to do necropsies. And there is one other thing that you need to know.”
“What is that?” Tyranny asked.
“Although each victim was impaled and rendered, the livers were taken only from those victims
who possessed endowed blood. Clearly, there is much more going on with these horrors than
first meets the eye.”
Wanting to look at another corpse, Tyranny beckoned Adrian to walk with her. The privateer
stopped before the second victim that Adrian had examined. When she looked at the corpse’s
face she saw that the dead man had been injured in ways that the woman had not. At first
Tyranny thought that she might become ill.
Parts of the man’s eyes were missing. The entire front of each eyeball was gone, leaving only the
rear walls intact. A trail of dried vitreous material ran down each cheek. The edges of the eye
sockets were not singed like the man’s abdominal wounds. Rather, they looked pitted, ragged. As
Tyranny looked closer she saw that the man’s face was similarly injured by what looked like fresh
pox marks. His liver remained intact, telling Tyranny that if Adrian was right in her assumptions,
this fellow had been of unendowed blood. She looked curiously at Adrian.
“What destroyed his eyes?” she asked. “And what caused these red marks on his face?”
Adrian shook her head. “I don’t know,” she answered. “It looks as though acid or some other
caustic material was sprayed onto his face. That might also be what destroyed his eyes. But one
thing is certain.”
“What is that?” the privateer asked.
“If these poor souls were alive during their mistreatment, they suffered horribly,” Adrian answered.
“I’m talking about terrible pain, Tyranny—the kind that drives even the strongest mystics mad.
What happened here is an outrage of massive proportions. I fear that a new Vagaries scourge
has somehow been loosed on Eutracia. If we don’t stop it soon, more such atrocities seem sure
to follow. But why bring these people here and then impale them? If they hail from Birmingham,
herding them to this shore took great effort. They could easily have been tortured and killed in
town.”
Tyranny cast her gaze back out across the sea. “I know why,” she said. “It was meant to be a
warning. They knew that the fleet would arrive soon, and they wanted this travesty to be the first
thing that we saw. It worked.”
Adrian was about to reply when she heard the flurry of Minion wings. As two warriors landed
nearby, everyone hurried over to greet them. One of the warriors was male and rather young; his
senior officer was an older female. They quickly approached Tyranny and clicked their boot heels
together.
“We have finished the shoreline body count that you asked for, Captain,” the female warrior said.
“The impaled victims number two thousand six hundred and thirty-three. There are no survivors.”
Tyranny’s heart fell. If these people came from Birmingham, it likely meant that the entire
population of the town had been wiped out.
“Is there word from Birmingham?” Traax asked.
The female officer pointed toward the western sky. Everyone turned to see a cluster of dark
specks approaching.
“A patrol returns from the village as we speak,” she answered.
As the figures in the sky grew larger, Tyranny soon realized that six of the twelve warriors were
carrying a litter. She couldn’t tell what the litter contained, but she was eager to find out. As the
patrol descended toward the shore, everyone ran over to meet them.
The newly constructed litter was about three meters square and made of freshly cut tree
branches lashed together with rope. It was more like a cage than a litter, Tyranny realized. As she
ran nearer, she finally saw what it contained. She and her group came to a quick stop.
The Minion warriors had captured a snarling, hissing beast. Tyranny had never seen anything like
it. She approached cautiously, stopping about three meters away.
The half-man, half-serpent was a grotesque creature. The hairless skull was olive in color. A pair
of twisted, sharp horns rose from either side of the skull. Long pointed ears lay on either side. The
eyes were wide apart, with dully opaque whites and vertical yellow irises. Its mouth soon opened,
sending a bright red forked tongue slithering forth to test the air. Before the mouth closed again,
Tyranny saw sharp yellow teeth and a pair of deadly incisors flash in the morning sun.
Its upper body appeared to be human, and its muscular arms looked strong. From the waist down
its body was a scaly, snakelike tail. Like the thing’s torso, the tail was olive in color, but it had dark
spots all along its length and gradually tapered to a forked end. When it saw Tyranny approach, it
coiled up and viciously hissed.
Without warning the creature suddenly shot forward and grasped one of the litter’s wooden
braces. Hissing madly again, it used all its strength to try to rip the cage apart. The sturdy cage
rocked wildly, but it held. The defeated beast then slithered toward the back of its beech wood
prison and coiled up protectively. As its dark eyes bored into Tyranny’s, a quick shudder went
through her.
Her mouth agape, she looked at the senior officer, who had also been one of the litter bearers. His
name was Davin, and Tyranny had come to respect him during the past week’s sea trials.
Although Davin was a graybeard, few warriors could outdrink or outfight him.
Tyranny pointed at the monster in the litter. “What in the name of the Afterlife is that thing?” she
breathed.
Davin unsheathed his dreggan. Before answering, he shoved his dreggan blade into the cage and
poked at the creature. It hissed again, exposing its deadly teeth.
“We don’t know,” Davin answered, “but most folks wouldn’t want to meet it alone on a dark night!
When we found it, it was lying in one of Birmingham’s streets, unconscious. One of the citizens
must have stunned it. When we tried to capture it, the thing came awake. It injured one warrior,
then spat at another, blinding him. It hasn’t spat again since its capture, so we think that a certain
amount of time must pass before it can do that again.” Davin pointed to the rows of impaled
corpses. “We believe that this thing and many more like it are responsible for these atrocities.”
“Can it speak?” Tyranny asked.
Davin shook his head. “Not that we have seen,” he answered. “But we all know that means
nothing.”
Adrian took a step closer. “A warrior was blinded, you say?” she asked.
Davin quickly raised one hand, warning the sister to stay back. “That’s close enough,” he said.
“The venom it spits seems to be acid. It burns the skin and harms the eyes. We have several
healers caring for the warrior that this bastard blinded. They are hoping that the blindness is
temporary, but they can’t be sure.”
Adrian looked at Tyranny. “That would explain the strange facial wounds that we saw,” she said.
“My guess is that many more of these victims have them as well.”
Davin turned to look at Tyranny. “If it please the captain, the blinded warrior should be seen by one
of the Conclave Wizards. I request that he be flown to Tammerland immediately.”
Tyranny nodded. “See to it at once,” she ordered. “But before you go—what of Birmingham?”
A dark look crossed the warrior’s face. “Birmingham no longer exists,” he answered. “Every
building was set afire. By the time we got there, most were already consumed. We saw no
citizens—dead or otherwise. It seems that they were all herded here and then killed. The
phalanxes are doing what they can to control the last of the flames.”
As she sheathed her sword, Tyranny looked angrily at the ground, then back at the rows of grisly
corpses. She had learned all that she could from this butchery, and it was time to go home and
inform the Conclave. Her task would not be a pleasant one. She cast a hard gaze toward Adrian.
“I head for Tammerland,” she said. “Traax will come with me. You, the other acolytes, Scars, and
the four phalanxes will remain here until you receive word that the ships’ new cradles have been
finished. While I am gone, you are in command. If more of those beasts appear, get the Black
Ships and the phalanxes into the air immediately. The monsters don’t seem to have the power of
flight, so being airborne will give you a great advantage. But I don’t think those creatures will
return.”
“And why would that be?” Traax asked.
Tyranny sadly cast her gaze toward the rows of corpses once more. “Because if Adrian’s
suspicions are true,” she answered softly, “these monsters got what they came for.”
The privateer turned to look at Davin. “Build another litter,” she ordered. “I am taking six of these
corpses back to Tammerland for further inspection. After I have gone, I want the remaining bodies
burned. The Conclave failed to protect these people. Immolating their remains seems the least
that we can do.”
Davin clicked his boot heels together and went to carry out his new orders.
“The bodies that you take back should be preserved by the craft,” Adrian offered. “Faegan would
insist on it.”
Tyranny nodded. “You’re right,” she answered. “Please enchant on six of them. Make sure that at
least one of them is without a liver. But leave the impaling staffs in place. I want Faegan and the
other mystics to see exactly how these people died.” Adrian nodded her agreement, then walked
off to start her grisly task.
As she waited, Tyranny looked out across the Sea of Whispers. The freshening wind smelled
clean, making her wish that she could go straight back out to sea. Instead, as she stood in the
drying blood among the glistening entrails, her heart became heavy once more.
Reaching for her gold case, she produced a cigarillo, then struck a match against one knee boot.
As she lit the cigarillo, the first lungful of smoke calmed her. Even so, from the moment she had
first seen the grisly impalements, the same question kept haunting her.
Why?

CHAPTER XII

“AS YOU CAN SEE, CONQUERING THE LANDS WHERE THE six rivers join will be of prime
importance,” Lucius Marius announced. He pointed to the large azure battle map floating in the air.
“But keeping these lands while the gold is being extracted is even more vital. It is widely rumored
that the Shashidan mines are inexhaustible.” Pausing for a moment, he smiled and turned to look
at the Suffragat.
“If we are lucky,” he added slyly, “we will learn whether the legend is true.”
As Vespasian sat in his throne before the entire Suffragat, he cast a quick glance at Persephone.
The empress was seated in her usual place, and she looked splendid in a beautiful blue gown.
Blood-red ruby earrings adorned her earlobes, and a matching necklace lay around her neck.
Persephone gave her husband a welcome look of support. Vespasian’s recent night terror had
shaken him, she knew. Even so, he had skillfully controlled every nuance of the session.
After Vespasian had finally awakened from his terrors, he and Persephone had talked for hours.
He described his dream to her in great detail. As she listened, Persephone grew more worried
about him. When she asked him who the unknown boy had been, he could not answer. In the
twisting maze that had been his dream, Vespasian was certain of only one thing—this latest
reverie had been far more real than any of those before it.
At Persephone’s suggestion, Vespasian had reluctantly trumped up some charges against the
imperial guards who had rushed into their rooms that night. He accused them of being members
of the League of Whispers, saying that they had broken down the door and tried to assassinate
him and Persephone. He had considered killing them on the spot, Vespasian added, but he
wanted the public to witness the traitors’ executions.
His orders were carried out the following dawn. The bewildered guards had gone to the gallows
loudly protesting their innocence. It had been all that the guilt-ridden emperor could do to keep
from commuting their sentences at the last moment. He knew these men, and they had served
him well. But the stakes were too high, so the executions went forward. With the guards dead, his
secret was safe.
During his youth, Vespasian’s dreams had always been florid and often frightening, sometimes so
much so that he had once confided to Gracchus about them. But none of those earlier episodes
had been as alarmingly violent as this most recent one. The lead cleric had told his young student
that his dreams were caused by the highly unusual strength of his endowed blood. As Vespasian
grew older, the dreams would slow, then stop altogether, Gracchus had said. And until last night,
they had.
Even so, something about this latest terror told Vespasian that no one other than Persephone
should know of it. Not even his best friend Lucius would be told. It was vitally important that he
continue to display the leadership and strength that had always characterized his
reign—especially when Rustannica would soon launch her greatest campaign.
The Suffragat had been in session for the last three hours. The Pon Q’tar, the Priory of Virtue, and
the Imperial Order centurions had come to learn about and vote on the war plan to take the
Shashidan gold mines. Because the session was highly secret, no skeens were present.
The war strategy was everything that Vespasian had hoped for. Taking the mines would produce
greater stability at home and ensure the empire’s continued ability to wage war. Conversely, it
would drastically curtail Shashida’s defensive capabilities and limit her power to supply the
domestic needs of her people. The tables would be turned. And if the mines could be held
indefinitely, an eventual Rustannican victory in the War of Attrition would be nearly assured.
The intricate plan that Gracchus, Julia, Persephone, Vespasian, and Lucius had finally agreed on
had not come easily. Intense bickering had persisted for days while Vespasian steadfastly settled
one dispute after another. It came as no surprise that most of the disagreements arose between
Gracchus and Lucius. The military and the Pon Q’tar had struggled for dominance since the
empire’s earliest days, and little about that rivalry had changed.
The attack on the Shashidan mines would be Vespasian’s fourth campaign as emperor. His
earlier crusades had been aggressive but far from decisive. During those struggles he had
learned that the military and the mystical wings of the Rustannican war machine badly needed
each other, whether they wanted to admit it or not. Without the legions, even the vaunted Pon
Q’tar was of limited usefulness, because they were relatively few in number. Conversely, the
military desperately needed advanced forms of magic to help win its battles.
Vespasian knew that once the campaign started, the military and the Pon Q’tar would likely snap
at each other like the vicious dogs in his recent night terror. Once again, this would be especially
true of Gracchus and Lucius. Because he was First Tribune, Lucius was also a trained mystic of
notable power. Lucius mistrusted most mystics who were not military personnel, and he saw
Gracchus as a particularly grasping and manipulative cleric. Gracchus thought Lucius to be a
hedonistic upstart who owed his quick rise to a close friendship with the emperor. Vespasian
knew that each of his headstrong servants was at least partly right. But during times of war there
were no two allies that he would rather have by his side.
As he thought about the campaign, Vespasian felt the pressure to succeed crowding in on him
again. It would be his responsibility to keep the peace among his forces while making war on the
enemy. That was why he had demanded the right to unilaterally change any aspect of the battle
plan once his forces were afield. In the end, the burden of victory would be his alone. As the days
progressed it weighed ever more heavily across his shoulders.
He again regarded the azure battle map. Lucius was still speaking—overstating, as expected, the
military’s importance to the plan. Never to be upstaged, Gracchus would surely ask for equal time
to emphasize the critical role of the Pon Q’tar. Beneath the map hovered hundreds of script-laden
columns that detailed the attack and listed the vast hordes of legionnaires and the huge amounts
of war materiel that would soon be needed. The requirements were staggering.
Save for a few legions left behind to keep order in Ellistium, all the empire’s land forces would
attack Shashida in a huge thrusting movement and take the mines. While the legions advanced,
great barges would cruise down the six majestic rivers that stabbed deep across the Borderlands
and into Shashidan territory. The legions would ruthlessly take one Shashidan riverside town after
another and secure the surrounding territories. According to Vespasian’s intelligence, the
precious mines lay farther south, where all six waterways joined to form one torrential force of
nature called the Alarik River. It would be there that Vespasian’s legions would stop, at least for a
time.
Once all six rivers were secured, the gold would eventually be sailed to Ellistium on legion cargo
vessels. But before he could allow that, Vespasian needed every Shashidan town along the
twelve riverbanks to be firmly under Rustannican control. This would ensure that the mines
stayed in Rustannican hands while the cargo vessels spirited the gold to Ellistium.
Special groups of legionnaires trained in mining and engineering would bear the responsibility of
taking the purloined gold from the ground. Shashidan miners who survived the attack would
become Rustannican slaves and be forced to help supply their enemies with their own gold.
Those who refused would be killed. It was a brazen, complicated plan that would need precise
timing. If it worked, Shashida would be weakened and Rustannica strengthened beyond all
precedent. But if it failed, all of Rustannica might go crashing down to final defeat. With her
treasury nearly empty, she would never again be able to mount such a massive campaign.
Vespasian returned his attention to Lucius’ presentation. The vote had already been taken and the
battle plan overwhelmingly approved. Therefore, Gracchus’ previous suggestion to take another
vote to quash the entire concept proved unneeded. Then Lucius had asked Vespasian for some
extra floor time to make several additional points on the military’s behalf. As Lucius’
self-aggrandizing talk progressed, Vespasian smiled. He knew that he badly needed Gracchus.
But Lucius was his closest friend and had always been a greater confidant than his mentor in the
craft. They’re such an odd but effective pair of allies, he found himself thinking.
Vespasian then regarded the Pon Q’tar as a whole. As they listened to Lucius’ specious talk,
many of the imperious clerics were wriggling uncomfortably like a mess of trapped eels.
Vespasian soon found himself wondering whether any of them had done one day’s worth of
manual labor in their entire lives. One never finds dirt under a Pon Q’tar cleric’s fingernails, he
thought.
Lucius soon finished his talk. After bowing to his emperor, he took his customary seat beside the
empress. Wishing to regain control of the proceedings, Vespasian lifted his gold scepter from its
nearby holder and banged it against the floor.
Before Vespasian could speak, Gracchus stood. Vespasian noticed that the cleric held a gold
diptych in his hands. The emperor’s eyes narrowed. The Oraculum, he realized.
“With all due respect to the emperor, I wish to approach,” Gracchus said.
Vespasian beckoned the lead cleric forward. Gracchus neared and handed the gold diptych to
Vespasian. As Vespasian broke the red seal and read the beeswax pages, a wide smile spread
across his face. Puzzled, the Suffragat waited in silence.
“Can this be true after all these years?” Vespasian asked of Gracchus. “As you know, I too am
familiar with the legend.”
Gracchus nodded. “The Oraculum dares not lie,” he answered. “She knows that her life is in my
hands.”
Vespasian was overjoyed. The Jin’Sai would be suddenly preoccupied just as the Rustannican
siege of Shashida went forth. It was a huge stroke of luck. He smiled at Gracchus.
“I suggest that you explain the Oraculum’s latest vision to everyone,” he said. “It is news worthy of
this fine session.”
Gripping the shoulder folds of his robe, Gracchus turned to face the Suffragat.
“The Oraculum brings excellent news,” he announced. “Our prayers to find a way to continue our
fight with the Jin’Sai on his side of the world have been answered. It seems that we again owe
much to the failed First Mistress of the Coven. After more than three centuries, the Eutracian
Viper Lord has risen. He and his servants have already started their rampage. In due course, all
resistance in Eutracia might well be eliminated. If the Viper Lord is victorious one can only guess
that he will then sail to Parthalon to wreak his mistress’s special brand of vengeance there as
well. We might see the death of all right-leaning blood east of the Tolenkas. This is indeed a
glorious day.”
Pausing for a moment, Gracchus looked straight at Lucius Marius, then smiled. “For those
military personnel who might be unschooled in the legend, I will provide a brief explanation.”
The Suffragat listened as Gracchus explained at some length the coming of the Viper Lord. Happy
expressions surfaced all around. Even Lucius momentarily forgave Gracchus’ thinly veiled insult
and went so far as to stand and start the raucous applause. As the ovation gradually subsided,
Gracchus returned to his seat.
Vespasian stood and looked toward Julia Idaeus. Despite the affirmative vote on the war plan, one
more hurdle remained before the emperor could pronounce the campaign official.
“Are you prepared to perform the auspicium?” he asked.
The Priory Femiculi stood. “I am,” she said. “The sacred birds await us.”
Vespasian nodded. “Very well,” he said. “Let us all adjourn to the courtyard.”
By custom, Persephone was the first to leave her seat and approach the emperor. As the
remaining Suffragat members followed her, Vespasian led the group across the floor.
Raising one arm, Vespasian pointed toward one of the many onyx wall pilasters, and it soon
glowed with the familiar azure color of the craft. Then the pilaster vanished to show a secret
tunnel in the Aedifficium wall. The courtyard beyond was called the Rustica, and it was known
only to the Suffragat. Built at the same time as the Aedifficium, it had been constructed in secrecy
and at great expense. The sacred ritual of the auspiciums was the Rustica’s sole reason for
being.
Taking Persephone by the hand, Vespasian led her into the arched tunnel and out through the far
end. When they emerged into the Rustica, dappled sunlight and the pleasant warbling of
songbirds greeted them.
The Rustica held marble seats arranged against one of its four walls. Another, far less grandiose
throne for Vespasian sat on the floor before them. While the members found their places,
Vespasian beckoned Persephone to take her seat. As he settled into his throne, the emperor
looked around. Vespasian loved the Rustica, for he always sensed a measure of intimacy here
that he found lacking in the Aedifficium.
The closed courtyard was square, measuring twenty meters on each side. As a tribute to the
azure glow of the craft, the walls and floor were built of turquoise blocks, polished to a high sheen.
There was no roof. Over time, lilac and crinkleberry vines had become so overgrown that the
walls could scarcely be seen. The combined scents of the hardy vines wafted pleasantly on the
afternoon air. The sky was bright blue and without a hint of cloud.
Vespasian turned to look toward the wall opposite the Suffragat. As Julia had promised, ten white
birds sat atop a golden rail. The birds’ feet were tethered to the rail. The auspicium would produce
a foretelling of either good or bad fortune and was always performed before a major event such
as the trying of an important new craft formula, the implementation of a new law, or the advent of
a major military campaign.
During the empire’s earliest days, the Pon Q’tar had insisted on performing the ritual themselves.
Later, they graciously bequeathed that honor to the reigning Femiculi. It had remained that way
ever since. Because her heart was known to be pure, the Femiculi could be relied on to perform
the ritual honestly and without prejudice.
How the sacred birds could divine either good or bad fortune was a secret of the craft that only the
clerics knew. Even Rustannica’s emperors were never informed. Vespasian did not object to this,
because in the entire history of the empire, the birds had never been wrong. By mutual agreement
of the Suffragat, an auspicium decreed whether a proposed event should go forward.
If the birds foretold bad fortune, the impending event was quickly canceled. If the decree was
good, the event was carried out with confidence. During the early days of the empire, a few
quarrelsome military tribunes had refused to believe an auspicium warning of bad fortune. The
secret campaign they launched proved disastrous, and Shashidan forces had slaughtered them
to the last man. Since then, not one member dared doubt the validity of the ritual.
Vespasian knew that the fate of the campaign to take the Shashidan gold mines rested on what
happened here. If the auspicium went badly, his magnificent plans would be canceled. Even he
would be unable to change that. If the decree was for good fortune, the campaign would be
launched. Once in the field, Vespasian would order yet more auspiciums to help him lead his
forces to victory.
Each of the sacred songbirds was pure white, like the gowns and veils of the Priory maidens. The
maidens tended the birds carefully, always ready for the day when the Pon Q’tar would notify
them that another auspicium was needed. Like the Pon Q’tar clerics, the birds had been granted
time enchantments, and they were thousands of years old. These same ten birds had been used
in every auspicium ever conducted.
As Julia waited for Vespasian to summon her, her heart pounded. This would be the most
important auspicium of her life—perhaps the most important in all of Rustannican history. As
Vespasian turned her way, she felt the weight of his gaze.
“You may begin,” he said simply.
Julia rose from her seat and walked toward the far wall. Save for the soft cooing of the birds, the
Rustica was bathed in silence. After stopping before the birds, Julia pointed in their direction. At
once the tethers binding the birds’ feet to the golden rail vanished. Even so, the birds knew better
than to fly away until their mistress willed it. Julia raised her arms and closed her eyes.
After the Femiculi recited the sacred chant, the birds would be free. They would wing their way
home to the Rotunda and enter the building through the oculus. If they turned north first, the
decree was favorable. If they turned south before flying for home, the decree dictated ill fortune.
Julia took a deep breath and bowed her head.
“O sacred flame of the Vagaries, grant us the wisdom to receive this auspicium, and to be guided
by its decree,” she said. “Allow your divine magic to drive the sacred birds skyward to show your
servants which path is best. We ask for your guidance in the upcoming campaign. In your name
we offer our thanks and our continued servitude.”
With that, Julia opened her eyes and raised her arms higher. Among a quick flurry of white wings,
the birds took to the sky.
For several tense moments the birds circled overhead, giving no inkling of their decree. Then
suddenly, as though of a single mind, they wheeled around to soar in one direction before finally
turning toward the Rotunda. Vespasian held his breath as the birds chose their path.
They flew due north. With every person’s gaze trained on the birds, no one saw that Gracchus
had narrowed his eyes slightly.
The Suffragat erupted into cheering. Letting go a deep sigh of relief, Vespasian looked at
Persephone. She gave him a reassuring smile. Then tears started forming in her eyes as she
hoped that when they said goodbye to one another it would not be for the last time.
For Vespasian the moment was bittersweet. As he watched Persephone’s eyes well up he made
a silent pact with himself that he would treat each remaining moment with her as though it were
their last. He then looked at Lucius. Already eager to be in the field, the beaming First Tribune
gave his emperor a rapacious wink.
And so it was that the campaign to take the Shashidan gold fields had been officially ratified and
could be put into motion. It would take time to assemble the needed troops and materiel. Even so,
nothing could stop the attack now.
Persephone came to join her husband and he escorted her from the Rustica. By custom, each
time an auspicium decree was favorable, a great banquet was served in the royal palace to
celebrate the joyous event. Tonight would be no exception, and Vespasian was looking forward to
it.
As the Suffragat left the courtyard, two Pon Q’tar clerics remained behind. Gracchus looked up at
the sky and he smiled. Aegaea Mithridates, one of Gracchus’ most trusted Pon Q’tar confidants,
came to stand beside him. She had a pleasant face and flowing gray hair. As if she could again
see the sacred birds winging home, she too looked to the sky.
Only hours ago Gracchus had informed the Pon Q’tar of the Oraculum’s complete vision. Unlike
Vespasian, Persephone, the Priory, and the Tribunes, nothing that the lead cleric had told the Pon
Q’tar during today’s Aedifficium session had come as a surprise. As had been so often the case
over the centuries, once again their playacting had been flawless.
“And so you have succeeded once more, Gracchus,” Aegaea said.
“Don’t I always?” he asked in return.
Taking her gaze from the sky, Aegaea looked the lead cleric in the eyes. “Tell me,” she asked,
“had you not intervened, which way do you believe that the birds would have flown?”
Gracchus looked at her. “We’ll never know,” he answered. “Nor does it matter. All that matters
now is that we have our war.”
“And what is to keep the Jin’Sai from crossing the Azure Sea?” she asked.
Gracchus smiled. “I will address that issue shortly, my dear,” he answered. “Do not fret. Tonight
our only concern is to enjoy our emperor’s renowned hospitality.”
As Gracchus escorted Aegaea from the courtyard, the late afternoon sun slipped down behind the
Rustica’s western wall.

CHAPTER XIII

Although revenge will taste sweet, it is not so much for
myself that I do this thing as for my lost beloved.
—KHRISTOS
WIPING THE SWEAT FROM HIS BROW, TRISTAN TOOK A break from his labors and reached
down to grasp a nearby stone jug. He raised the vessel to his lips and drank greedily of the cool
water before pouring some onto his head. Smiling, he ran the fingers of one hand back through
his salt-and-pepper hair, then tossed the jug to Ox.
Ox caught the jug between his huge palms and drained its remaining contents in a single draught.
After letting go a wet belch, he wiped his mouth with the back of one hand and dropped the jug to
the ground.
“Not good as akulee, but Ox thank Jin’Sai,” the huge warrior said. “The day be hot, but work
almost done. Then ships can come.” Tristan responded with a smile.
It was midafternoon on the third day following Tyranny’s return to Tammerland. The sky was hot
and bright. As he stood amid the great hustle and bustle, Tristan shook his head, thinking. So
much had happened in such a short time that he hardly knew what to make of it all. He wasn’t
alone in his confusion, for every Conclave member felt the same.
His mystics had been secluded in the Redoubt for the last two days, trying to unravel the strange
mysteries that had recently appeared. So far they had sent no word about their findings. To dispel
his nervous energy, Tristan had come to help the Minion workers and engineers with the massive
project that he had assigned to them several months ago. He was glad that the job was nearly
done.
The Jin’Sai took another deep breath. Raising his sledge high, he brought it down squarely against
an iron spike that would help seat another of the great laminated timbers into place. Hundreds of
Minion workers were also pounding away in various areas on the same project. After driving six
more spikes home, Tristan again stopped to catch his breath.
The huge construction area was a beehive of activity, with hundreds of male and female Minion
warriors working tirelessly toward one goal. Tristan had selected a spacious field just outside the
palace walls as the permanent resting place for the Black Ship fleet. Of all the Conclave mystics,
only Jessamay was here to apply the craft when needed. Tristan wanted the fleet returned home
as soon as possible, for his heart told him that he would soon need them.
He had seen the horrific creature and the impaled corpses that Tyranny brought back, and their
surprising existence caused him great concern. He realized that many such wicked beasts would
have been needed to commit the thousands of grisly atrocities that Tyranny found at Birmingham.
Despite Tristan’s earlier hopes that the Vagaries had been vanquished east of the Tolenkas,
another strange threat from the craft’s dark side had somehow risen. Every fiber of his being told
him that the danger needed to be dealt with quickly.
Moreover, the Conclave’s confirmation of subtle matter and learning that Shashida could be
reached by crossing the Azure Sea had been astounding. But Tristan had absolutely no idea how
to accomplish such a daunting task. Ships would be needed to cross that strange sea, and in the
depths of the caves there were no raw materials from which to build them. Nor did Tristan dare
order his warriors to try to cross the sea by air, for he knew nothing about the distance involved.
Tristan shook his head again. Only three days ago he had been dead certain that he should leave
for the Caves straightaway. But with the grisly impalements and the coming of the man-serpents,
his next course of action became unclear. As was often the case, his mystics’ advice would
figure prominently in his decision.
Even so, he had ordered that Minion phalanxes start flying over Eutracia to search out the deadly
monsters. He knew that it would be akin to finding a thimble in a sneezeweed stack, as Abbey
was so fond of saying, but he had to try. Because the Conclave still knew so little about the
beasts, even if they were found, he had ordered that the warriors were to take no action unless
citizens were again being threatened. It chafed at the Jin’Sai to give his troops such cautious
instructions. Not leading them himself chafed even more. But other matters commanded his duty
now.
Placing one palm above his eyes to shield them from the blazing sun, he again looked out over
the huge construction site. Three of the massive cradles were finished and the fourth was nearly
so. Because so many warriors had been freed after building the first three, the final cradle was
swiftly nearing its completion.
The cradles’ frameworks were shaped exactly like the Black Ships’ hulls, only larger, so that the
vessels could fit into them. Great laminated timbers that formed the cradles’ spines lay on huge
stone foundations so that the cradles wouldn’t shift in the soft earth. The cradles pointed east,
ensuring that when the ships lay in them, their bows would face into the prevailing wind coming off
the Sea of Whispers. Each massive spine measured just over one hundred meters long and
curved skyward for fifty meters at each end. Huge timber braces curved away from the spines at
regular intervals and also rose upward for fifty meters. Buttresses made of more stout wood
stood angled against the braces, their opposite ends shoved deeply into the earth for support.
Wigg had searched high and low for the original Black Ship plans, and he had finally found them
buried among the countless other documents that had been scattered about in the Archives of the
Redoubt. With the plans at their disposal, Jessamay and the Minion engineers could ensure a
perfect fit when the four Black Ships finally came home to roost. The aft ends of the cradles were
left open so that the huge stern doors of the ships could be easily lowered for the loading and
unloading of supplies, weapons, and troops.
Tristan would be greatly relieved to have the vessels stationed so near to the palace rather than
moored at the Cavalon Delta. With the ships constantly supplied and their Minion crews and
acolyte pilots always at the ready, the ships could be ordered airborne at a moment’s notice.
Tristan had read Tyranny’s sea trials report and he had accepted her suggestion about
permanently assigning the four Minion phalanxes to Black Ship duty. He had also told the acolytes
Astrid, Phoebe, and Claire that they were to be the ships’ permanent pilots. But Tristan believed
that Sister Adrian was too valuable to be assigned to the flagship Tammerland on a permanent
basis. When Adrian returned with the fleet he would order her to select and train another acolyte
in her place.
Tristan laid down his sledge and turned to look at Ox. “I’ve had enough of pounding these spikes
for a while,” he said. “Shall we go and see how Jessamay is doing?”
The giant warrior smiled. If ordered by Tristan, he would gladly swing his heavy sledge until his
heart gave out. He gave his Jin’Sai a wide grin.
“Ox glad to quit,” he said. Reaching down, he retrieved Tristan’s weapons from the ground and
handed them to him. As Tristan strapped his sword and throwing knives into place, Ox looked
around the construction site.
“Minions do well here,” he said. “Me hope Jin’Sai be proud.”
Tristan smiled and laid one hand atop the warrior’s shoulder. Ox had saved his life more than
once, and there were few souls in the world that he trusted more.
“Since entering my service that fateful day in Parthalon, the Minions have always given me pride,”
he answered, “and sometimes you above all.”
As though Tristan had just given Ox the keys to the kingdom, the warrior puffed his chest out with
pride. Without further ado the pair started over to where Jessamay was working.
Cutting the thousands of trees needed to build the ships’ cradles had been a daunting enough
task. But carefully heating and bending the massive, freshly laminated braces so that they would
exactly conform to the Black Ships’ hulls was another matter entirely. Tristan knew that given
enough time, the Minion warriors could probably have done the job. But he wanted ships home
soon, so he had decided to speed the process via the craft. Intrigued by the challenge, Jessamay
had eagerly volunteered. For the last three months she had done little else but toil on the massive
cradles.
The Vigors sorceress stood about thirty meters away, occasionally waving her arms and shouting
out orders to the warrior engineers assigned to help her. With her long blond hair tied behind her
back and dressed as she was in leather trousers, scuffed knee boots, and a simple white linen
peasant’s blouse, she looked more like a Eutracian commoner than a valued member of the
Conclave. Tristan smiled as he approached. Jessamay was many things, but commonplace
wasn’t one of them.
The warrioress Duvessa was standing by Jessamay’s side and barking out orders with equal
verve. As Minion Premier Healer and the leader of the cadres of female combat warriors, she
commanded great respect. Traax’s wife was an attractive Minion with green eyes. As it was
today, her black hair was often tied into twisted braids. A pair of crossed feathers was
embroidered into the breastplate of her leather armor. The white feather showed her rank as
Premier Healer, and the red one signified her command of the female warriors who participated in
combat.
A crude worktable stood before the two women, its top strewn with parchments and diagrams. A
stout canvas lay stretched atop wooden poles, shielding the women and the ancient documents
from the sun. As Tristan and Ox gratefully took advantage of the shade, the women looked up.
“How is it coming?” Tristan asked.
“We’re nearly done,” Jessamay answered. “There’s just one more brace to shape and install.”
She raised her arm and pointed toward the construction site.
Tristan looked out from the shade to see several dozen horses being led their way by Minion
warriors. Taken from the palace stables, the thirty-six steeds were harnessed in pairs to a huge,
flat cart that had been built solely for moving the massive uprights. Despite the powerful horses,
the cart and its odd-looking load neared with agonizing slowness. Realizing that this last brace
measured a good fifty meters long and another ten meters around, Tristan couldn’t begin to
imagine how much the thing weighed.
As the sweating horses finally pulled the cart to a stop, Jessamay scooped up one of the
parchments from the table and went to inspect this last brace. Tristan, Ox, and Duvessa followed.
Like its brothers, the brace was a wondrous example of Minion craftsmanship. The warriors had
selected Eutracian oak because of its great strength and high resistance to inclement weather.
The massive brace was actually a series of smaller and thinner oak slats that had been carefully
cut to size, then glued together. Just now the brace was as straight as an arrow, but that would
soon change.
Jessamay spent much time looking at the brace, then consulting her diagram, then looking back
at the brace again. She then produced a long measuring string from her trousers and used it to
confirm her findings. Finally satisfied, she nodded and returned the string to her pocket.
“It’ll do,” she said simply.
Tristan smiled as he anticipated the next part of the process. He had seen Jessamay do this
several times before, and each time it had amazed him. Because of the great length and
thickness of the laminated braces, even Jessamay could only bend them a little at a time. This
brace would be no exception.
The Vigors sorceress ordered the Minions to unharness the horses and lead them away; then she
asked that Ox, Tristan, and Duvessa come and stand behind her. As the three spectators moved
into place, Jessamay raised her arms.
At once the far end of the massive brace started to glow. As the azure hue intensified, Jessamay
concentrated harder. Soon the near end of the beam began to curve, and hissing steam rose
from it to disappear high into the air. When the sorceress was satisfied, she dropped her arms
and the azure hue vanished. Taking up her parchment and her string again, she went to check on
the first stage of what would be a long and arduous process.
For the next two hours she fussed, measured, and employed the craft to repeatedly force the
length of the beam into the proper shape. The curve had to be just right, lest the last cradle
become misaligned and cause its Black Ship to sit crookedly. Worse yet, if one beam was
misshapen, the others might not be able to withstand the added strain, causing the entire cradle
to collapse.
Once the beam cooled, she would order the Minions to ferry it to the last cradle. The warriors
would then use great cranes and pulleys to lift it into place and immediately buttress it with side
shores. They would then pound spikes into it to join it to the spine, just as Tristan and Ox had
been doing. Finally the hundreds of needed crossbraces would be added to strengthen the cradle
and to hold the entire framework together.
Glad to be done with her work, Jessamay walked tiredly back to the makeshift shelter. Taking a
bottle of claret and several wooden cups from a nearby picnic basket, she placed them on the
worktable. By the time the others joined her, all four cups were filled.
Raising her cup, Jessamay watched the others follow suit. She then looked out at the four
massive cradles sitting side by side on their stone foundations. Lined up that way, they took up a
huge area. Once the Black Ships lay in them, the sight would be even more impressive. Proud to
have been a part of this effort, she returned her attention to the others.
“To the Black Ships!” she toasted. “May they take us far and always bring us home again!”
Everyone smiled at that. After draining his cup, Tristan refilled it. But just as he was about to take
another drink, he noticed an odd tingling in his blood. He looked up to see that everyone was
staring strangely at him. He soon realized that they weren’t looking at his face, but at the gold
medallion lying around his neck. He looked down to see that the medallion was glowing.
Tristan was delighted. This was the first time that Shailiha had called on her matching medallion
to communicate with him. Placing his cup on the worktable, he grasped his medallion and turned
it over.
As he expected, the medallion’s opposite side showed an image of his sister. She was seated in
her chair at the great mahogany table in the Conclave meeting chamber, deep in the bowels of
the Redoubt. Tristan could see Traax seated on one side of her; the empty chair on the princess’s
other side belonged to Jessamay. Caprice the field flier sat perched at the top of Shai’s chair and
was gently opening and closing her great wings. Given the limited confines of the medallion,
Tristan could not tell whether anyone else was in the room.
As he looked closer, he saw that his sister’s face bore a worried expression. She held up a
parchment, and he saw that its words were written in her handwriting. As Tristan read them, a
sudden chill went down his spine.
Come quickly, the parchment said. The wizards need us.

CHAPTER XIV

IN THE END, THE CITIZENS OF TANGLEWOOD NEVER stood a chance.
As the once beautiful city burned in the night, the vicious man-serpents raged wildly through the
streets. Tanglewood held many more inhabitants than had Birmingham. But that was of no
consequence, for even now more snakelike beings continued to rise from the stream in Hartwick
Wood to swell the monsters’ ranks. As though there were no end to their numbers, they flowed
through Tanglewood like a dark, undulating river. Standing in the town square, their leader
watched as his servants went about his bidding. He would kill every human he encountered during
his quest to find and serve Failee.
From all around him came the screams and sobs of the innocent, as one by one they were
impaled like those killed along the Birmingham shore. Because there were so many more victims
here, the process would take far longer. But that didn’t matter, for he had all the time in the world.
The grisly impalements were ingenious, ensuring the immobilization of his captives while leaving
his servants free to rummage about in the victims’ innards. Some succumbed straightaway after
being impaled; others lingered in agony before dying. The crude impalement poles and their
bleeding human adornments already filled the great square, and their numbers had started
overtaking the connecting avenues and byways. In many cases the impalements wound far up
the cobblestoned streets and out of sight, into the inky blackness of the night.
The master turned to look at the writhing victim impaled directly before him. The man had once
been hardy and vigorous. He appeared to be somewhere near fifty Seasons of New Life and he
had thick, graying hair. Although he had been one of the first to be impaled, he still lived. Despite
how tenaciously he clung to life, his death would soon be at hand.
Like all the Birmingham victims, he had been stripped of his clothing. A sharpened pole had been
viciously shoved into his groin, then threaded up through his abdomen to emerge near his
collarbone. His hands were raised above him and impaled through his palms; pieces of wood had
been fixed to the pole below his hands and feet to prevent him from sliding down the bloodied
staff. Blood dripped slowly from his groin and onto the dirty cobblestones. Like all blood, it looked
black in the dark of night.
How curious, the serpent master thought. Sometimes the men die so quickly, while the physically
weaker women, children, and the elderly often linger for hours. It no doubt had to do with whatever
bits were punctured, he reasoned. Clearly, the impaling process was not a precise one. Nor did it
need to be.
Hearing another building cave in, he turned to look. Every structure in the city was ablaze.
Carrying torches, the grotesque man-serpents had furtively slithered into the dwellings and set
them afire, or simply tossed their blazing torches atop the thatched roofs and left them to do their
work. Many screaming victims fled the infernos with their clothing and hair afire, and they were
allowed to burn to death before being impaled. Some buildings had already tumbled into ruin,
while others still spewed orange-red flames from their destroyed doorways and smashed
windows.
The crackling of the fires sometimes drowned out the wailing of the victims, and thick, choking
smoke curled into the air, blotting out the stars. Many people tried to run, but they were invariably
snatched up by the man-serpents’ strong arms or winding tails. Children toddled about aimlessly,
wailing and crying out for parents who would never again hold them. Some people emerged to
find friends and loved ones already impaled. Many collapsed in grief, sobbing as they hugged their
beloveds’ bloody feet before they too were taken up.
The serpent master smiled. Despite ordering the fires to be set, he cared nothing about
destroying the city. Rather, the fires were an easy way to force the humans from their dwellings
so that they could be caught and spiked. He enjoyed seeing their hovels burn, even though he too
had once been human.
He watched as his grotesque servants dragged ever more struggling citizens toward the square.
Stacks of freshly hewn impalement poles lay nearby on the blood-slicked cobblestones. There the
captives were stripped naked and impaled and their clothing tossed into the raging fires. If they
resisted, their livers were harvested quickly by the monsters’ slashing talons and biting teeth, and
their dead bodies were impaled anyway.
To better view the grisly scene, the master reached up and lowered the hood of his robe. As he
did, the raging fires highlighted his grotesque face. He was called Khristos, and his tale was a
twisted one.
Like the heads of the man-serpents that he commanded, his cranium was also hairless, with
long, pointed ears. Although his face could not be called entirely human, it was less snakelike than
those of his followers. He bore no sharp, twisted horns, and his skin, nose, and lips were human.
But his eyes, his tongue, and his teeth told a far different tale.
His large eyes were human in contour, but they held almond-shaped pupils that lay embedded
vertically in bright yellow irises. Like those of his followers, his teeth were long, sharp, and yellow,
and he possessed the same two pairs of incisors. Also like his servants, his long tongue was
bright red and forked, and continually tested the cool night air. The rest of his muscular body was
human.
His simple black robe was tattered, and in one hand he held a gleaming silver staff. As he had
hundreds of years before, he again commanded the craft with a power and a mastery that easily
rivaled any wizard in Eutracian history. And of perhaps even greater significance, there was a
secret about Khristos that only a few surviving mystics knew.
Three centuries ago—long before his transformation into the being that commanded the terrible
man-serpents—Khristos had been Failee’s secret lover.
Khristos returned his gaze to the impaled man. Somehow the fellow still lived. But whether the
man was alive or dead was of no importance, for he would not survive what Khristos was about to
do to him. Khristos raised his staff and pointed it at the bleeding man. At once the entire
instrument shone, and the death-dealing began in earnest.
An azure beam, so narrow that it could hardly be seen, leapt from the staff and struck the man
squarely in the chest. As his skin burned and smoked, he struggled against his impaling pole and
cried out in agony. But he soon realized that it was no use, for the more he struggled, the greater
the searing pain became.
Khristos used his glowing beam to carve an incision down the man’s body from his throat to his
groin. Then he ordered the beam to crack apart the victim’s sternum and separate his rib cage,
exposing the man’s working organs. As the sickly-sweet smell of burning flesh rose into the air, it
took only a few more moments for Khristos to find and free the man’s liver. By this time the man
had died, his chin slumping forward onto his chest. Like wriggling serpents suddenly liberated
from a snake charmer’s basket, the man’s glistening intestines slipped free from his gaping body
cavity and dangled toward the ground.
His job done, Khristos recalled the azure beam, and his staff reclaimed its gleaming silver color.
Using his free hand, he calmly pointed toward the prize he sought and ordered it to float into his
grasp. Smiling as blood ran down his hand, Khristos admired the liver in the moonlight. It was a
fine specimen, but many more like it would be needed. He turned and handed it to one of the
man-serpents standing by his side. Hissing with satisfaction, the monster greedily accepted the
bloody prize and devoured it on the spot.
Turning, Khristos walked to the next victim. This one was an elderly woman who was already
dead, but neither of those distinctions mattered. Amid the constant screaming and begging of
those still being impaled, he once more raised his silver staff. The azure glow again began
building within the shining instrument of death.
Just as he was about to incise her body, Khristos heard an unknown voice call out from
everywhere, nowhere. Its sudden and unexpected presence startled him.
“Khristos…” it said. Then it was gone.
Turning this way and that, he saw no one except the many terrified victims and his servants who
were still hard at work committing the grisly atrocities. With no answer at hand, he again raised
his staff. Just as he did, the strange, otherworldly voice visited his mind again.
“Khristos,” the voice repeated. “Stop your work and hear me.”
At first he was overjoyed, hoping that the voice might be that of Failee. But no, he realized sadly,
for it had been male. Suddenly gripped by an overpowering yet unexplained need to supplicate
himself, he went down on his knees. He placed his staff on the ground beside him and bowed his
head. Amid all the gore and mayhem, he waited.
Despite his great prowess in the craft, Khristos did not know what to do. Three centuries ago
Failee believed that she might one day have the power to reach out and touch his mind. Now,
three centuries later, he somehow understood that he needn’t speak to answer the voice’s
mysterious owner.
“I am here,” Khristos thought. “Who are you? What do you wish of me?”
“First, know this,” the voice said. “Your beloved mistress is dead.”
Like a raging river, an intense, overpowering sorrow flowed through Khristos’ being. He wanted to
weep and wail, but he steadfastly held his posture of supplication. He dared not move, for a being
that could reach out and touch his mind this way must surely be more powerful than he.
Summoning up his courage, he decided to ask the question that burned so hotly in his heart.
“How did Failee die?” he asked. “Was she killed in the Sorceresses’ War?”
“No,” the voice answered. “Nor did the Coven win that war. The Directorate of Wizards prevailed.”
“Which of them killed her?” he demanded. “Was it Wigg? Does he live still? Tell me and I will
force that Vigors worshipper to rue the day that he was born.”
“It was not Wigg.”
“Who, then?”
“Failee was killed by the reigning Jin’Sai. He murdered her less than three years ago. The
Jin’Saiou also walks the earth.”
As Khristos’ sorrow turned to rage, his anger became so great that he could barely respond. His
body trembled; he cried aloud; he beat his fists upon the bloody cobblestones. Finally he relented
and he returned his attention to the mysterious voice.
“Who are you who knows so much and commands such wonders of the craft?” he asked.
“My name is Gracchus,” the voice answered. “Listen carefully and I will tell you many things.
Much has happened since Failee committed you to the river. With the First Mistress gone you
must abandon your search for her. In her stead, you must now serve me.”
“Why should I do so?” Khristos asked. “With my beloved dead, I am a free entity.”
“True,” Gracchus answered. “But your new, overriding concern is to kill the Jin’Sai and his
followers, is it not? Like you, I serve the Vagaries. Unlike you, I command powers that you could
only dream of. But even with all your newly born servants you cannot touch the Jin’Sai, for he
hides behind the palace walls with his Conclave and his grotesque winged army. If you join forces
with me, together we can destroy him. Should you succeed, I will grant to you a reward beyond
your wildest dreams.”
“What reward?” Khristos asked.
“You will have complete rule over Eutracia and Parthalon,” Gracchus answered. “Destroy the
Conclave and all this will become yours.”
“But how am I to destroy the Jin’Sai,” Khristos asked, “given how well protected he is?”
“He will soon depart the safety of the palace,” Gracchus answered. “But only I know his
destination. So tell me—do we have an arrangement?”
Khristos raised his head for a moment and looked out over the atrocity-laden square with nearly
unseeing eyes. The events of the last few moments had been stunning, life-altering. He and his
servants had been released from the river for but a few hours, yet already had come another
great crossroads to navigate. Is following this unseen mystic what Failee would want him to do?
he wondered. Could the sacred trust she instilled into him still be honored if he accepted this
strange voice from the beyond as his new master? After thinking for a time, he again lowered his
head.
“I will serve you,” Khristos finally answered. “Tell me more.”
Amid the fires, the chaos, and the sudden death, for the next full hour Khristos listened intently to
Gracchus’ every word. Gracchus told him of the worlds on the other side of the Tolenka
Mountains and of the great campaign that Rustannica was mounting against Shashida. He also
enlightened Khristos about the outcome of the Sorceresses’ War, of Failee’s banishment to
Parthalon, of her failed plan to abduct the Jin’Saiou and to turn her into her into her fifth sorceress,
and how the Jin’Sai had defeated Nicholas, Wulfgar, and Serena. When the Pon Q’tar cleric
finished, Khristos was unwaveringly committed to his new master.
“I understand, my lord,” Khristos answered. “What are your orders?”
“Leave this place,” Gracchus answered. “Take your army of Blood Vipers and head south to the
Caves of the Paragon. There you will await the Jin’Sai and his forces. They will surely enter the
Caves. That is when you will strike.”
“Very well,” Khristos replied. “We will do as you say. When will you reach out to touch my mind
again?”
“When the Jin’Sai draws near,” Gracchus answered. “Until then, travel only by night, for the
Jin’Sai’s winged ones are undoubtedly hunting for you. Enter the safety of the Caves unseen and
await my word.”
Understanding his new task, Khristos bowed deeper. “It will be as you say,” he replied. With that,
he felt Gracchus’ presence leave his mind.
Standing, the newly indentured Viper Lord turned to look at the ravaged city that had once been
Tanglewood. Nearly all the buildings lay in ruins as dawn crept over the horizon. Victims sobbed
and wailed as they were being impaled. Children still cried; the fires still burned. But he would
leave all this work unfinished, for he had been given a far more important and worthy task. If he
was successful, he could still avenge Failee’s murder and forever secure his place in history.
For several moments he thought of the magnificent Failee—of her great beauty, of her majesty, of
her immense prowess in the craft. Then his mind turned toward the Jin’Sai and his intense hatred
began to rebuild. Failee had told him that the Tome predicted the coming of the Jin’Sai and the
Jin’Saiou and that they must be dealt with to protect the Vagaries. But in those days even the First
Mistress did not know when they might appear. None of that mattered now, he realized. The sun
would rise soon, and it was time to be on the move.
Summoning his many Blood Vipers, Khristos issued his new orders.

CHAPTER XV

AS TRISTAN TOOK HIS SEAT AT THE ROUND MAHOGANY table in the Conclave meeting
room, he was eager to hear what his mystics had to say, yet he was also fearful that their
pronouncements might cause him even greater worry. For the last three days nearly all he could
think about was the conundrum of how to cross the Azure Sea and reach Shashida, as well as
finding and crushing the mysterious man-serpents that had so ruthlessly tortured and killed every
man, woman, and child who had once lived in the coastal village of Birmingham. There had been
no word from the Minion search parties that hunted the monsters, and that only heightened his
restlessness. Each of these new challenges was of immense importance, and the dark
consequences of their simultaneous arrival were not lost on him.
As Shailiha and the mystics waited in silence, the remaining Conclave members took their seats.
Sister Adrian would be the only member not in attendance, for she was still piloting the Black
Ships home. Once the nine members were situated, Tristan looked around the table. The people
gathered here formed an impressive group, and he could think of no better allies to have by his
side during the dark and challenging days that lay ahead.
To his immediate left sat Tyranny. Tristan was surprised to see her smoking one of her
cigarillos—a Conclave meeting first. The bluish haze already starting to fog the chamber was
garnering the privateer more than a few disparaging looks. But the set of her jaw told everyone
that she would not appreciate being asked to forgo her habit. Failing to save the Birmingham
impalement victims still deeply angered her, and whenever she was agitated, a lit cigarillo could
be found clamped between her lips. In truth, Tristan had never minded her habit. But he smiled
wryly as he wondered how long it would take Wigg to make a fuss about it.
To Tyranny’s left sat the First Wizard. His craggy face looked worried and drawn, perhaps due in
part to lack of sleep, Tristan guessed. There was also a hint of sadness there, as if he had been
reminded of some deep personal pain. Secured to its familiar gold chain, the Paragon hung
around the wizard’s neck. The herbmistress Abbey sat on Wigg’s other side. A pot of steaming
tea, nine cups, and a platter piled with sugared scones sat before her.
Tristan knew how much Abbey loved Wigg and that despite the wizard’s protests, Wigg secretly
enjoyed the way she looked after him. The Jin’Sai respected her deeply. As he watched her pour
a cup of hot tea for Wigg, he found himself hoping that she had laced it with one her esoteric
stimulants. It had already been a long day, and like Wigg, he too could do with a bit of propping up.
Next to Abbey sat Faegan, comfortably situated in his chair on wheels. Like Wigg he looked
desperately tired. In his hands he held Nicodemus, his centuries-old dark blue cat, and his
precious violin lay on the table before him. Nicodemus purred pleasantly as Faegan
absentmindedly scratched the cat’s throat.
The next seat was vacant, for it belonged to Sister Adrian. Then there was Traax. Like Tyranny,
Traax seemed agitated. He too had been devastated when they had not been able to intercept the
grotesque man-serpents. As Tristan looked at him, the warrior clenched his jaw and shifted in his
seat, eager for the meeting to start. Traax respectfully nodded back at Tristan, his dark eyes
reflecting a mixture of devout loyalty and his deep need to hunt the monsters that prowled
Eutracia.
Shailiha sat on Traax’s left. Clothed in a simple blue dress, she wore a string of freshwater
Eutracian pearls, and two more hung from her earlobes. She regarded her brother affectionately.
As was often the case during Conclave meetings, Caprice perched quietly atop the princess’s
chair, gently folding and unfolding her butterfly wings to keep her balance. Tristan pointed at his
medallion, then gave his sister a knowing smile. Shailiha nodded and smiled in return.
Next to Shailiha sat Jessamay. Like the other mystics, the Vigors sorceress seemed tired. But
Tristan knew that her fatigue came from her long hours of helping the Minions construct the new
Black Ship cradles, rather than from conferring with her fellows in the craft.
On Tristan’s immediate right sat Aeolus. The bald-headed mystic and K’Shari master sat
peacefully, waiting for the meeting to start. He did not seem as tired as the other mystics. His
years of martial training accounted for that, Tristan guessed.
Seeing Aeolus reminded Tristan of something, and he instinctively looked down at one of his
upper arms, then the other. Like Wigg and Aeolus, Tristan bore the dual tattoos of Aeolus’ martial
schooling. And like Aeolus, Tristan commanded the gift of K’Shari, allowing him to gain total calm
during battle—a priceless advantage to any warrior. Tristan had gained the gift of forestallment,
immediately granting his endowed blood expertise in hundreds of martial techniques, many of
which he had yet to realize. Although Aeolus had been working with him to bring them to the fore,
they believed that Tristan had only scratched the surface of what he might ultimately attain. To the
best of Tristan’s knowledge, he and Aeolus were the only two people in the world who claimed the
gift.
Tristan again regarded his tattoos. One was that of a serpent, indicating hand-to-hand combat
mastery. The other was a sword, attesting to expertise with various weapons. He was proud of
those two marks, and he knew that they would be with him until the day he died.
In the center of the table lay the Tome of the Paragon and the two Scrolls of the Ancients. The
Scrolls were wound tight and secured at their centers with golden bands. Each relic still showed
slight traces of azure subtle matter, reminding the prince of the other reason this meeting had
been called. The rest of the room was littered with various scrolls and texts that had probably
been taken from the still-disheveled Archives of the Redoubt and used in the mystics’ research.
Curiously, Failee’s centuries-old red leather tooled grimoire sat atop the table as well. It had been
some time since Tristan had seen it, and he had to admit that he had nearly forgotten about it.
Taken from the depths of the Recluse, the book was said to contain many of Failee’s most secret
spells, her private correspondence, and her personal memoirs. Tristan had no idea how much of
the book Wigg had read, and out of respect for the wizard’s feelings he had never asked. Even
so, the grimoire’s presence here today would surely serve some important purpose.
Feeling a pinch in his back, Tristan realized that he was still wearing his weapons. Unbuckling his
baldric and knife quiver, he placed them over the back of his chair. The fire in the hearth across
the room burned and snapped pleasantly, its comforting flames and pleasant odor belying the
wizards’ possibly dark pronouncements. Tyranny let go yet another lungful of smoke into the air;
Jessamay poured herself a cup of Abbey’s strong, dark tea.
Tristan looked first at Wigg, then at Faegan. “What have you learned?” he asked simply.
After scrubbing his face with his hands, Wigg tiredly leaned forward and placed his forearms on
the table. He took another sip of Abbey’s tea, then looked Tristan straight in the eyes.
“There is so much to tell that we scarcely know where to start,” he said.
“Better too much than too little,” Tristan answered. “I suggest that you start at the beginning, old
friend.”
Wigg nodded and sat back. “The terrible creatures that tortured and killed the people of
Birmingham are called Blood Vipers,” he began. “Like the Swamp Shrews that once tormented
Parthalon, they serve but one purpose—exacting revenge. The formula for their conjuring was
perfected by Failee late in the Sorceresses’ War, when the defeat of the Coven was near. There
are probably tens of thousands of Blood Vipers loose in Eutracia by this time. But unlike the
leaderless Swamp Shrews, these creatures are commanded by a shrewd and cunning master.
He is called the Viper Lord, and he will stop at nothing to wreak vengeance in Failee’s name. He
commands the craft in the name of the Vagaries.”
“With all due respect, how can you know this?” Shailiha asked skeptically. “Surely you did not
unearth all this information simply by examining the creature and the six corpses that Tyranny
brought home.”
“No,” Wigg answered. “While Faegan was performing a necropsy on the blood viper, Aeolus,
Abbey, and I searched the Tome and the Scrolls for information that might help us understand
more. I soon wondered whether Failee’s grimoire might shed some light on the mystery. I was
right. Despite how well I thought I knew Failee, what I found there shocked me. When these
secrets were coupled with Faegan’s necropsy report, we had many of our answers. We then
concentrated our efforts on researching the subtle matter and how we might cross the Azure
Sea. Some of what we are about to tell you will seem incredible, but you must hear us out.”
Intrigued, Tristan leaned forward. “Go on,” he said.
“Failee’s formula to conjure the Blood Vipers was found in her grimoire,” Faegan answered. He
paused to give Nicodemus another welcome scratch. “Even now we are just starting to
understand how brilliant she was. Like the Swamp Shrews that she conjured to take revenge on
innocent Parthalonians, she created the Blood Vipers to take revenge on Eutracians should she
lose the Sorceresses’ War. It was a part of her failed scorched-earth policy. But in several ways
this plan was even more diabolical.”
“How so?” Shailiha asked.
Faegan gave the princess a short smile. “The first difference should be obvious enough,” he
answered. “Unlike the leaderless shrews that appeared soon after her death, here in Eutracia the
Blood Vipers came alive only after lying dormant for more than three centuries—long after the war
had ended. One day not long ago they arose, and with them came their lord. They quickly started
exacting vengeance in Failee’s name, starting with the poor souls in Birmingham. Unless they are
stopped, they might well kill every person in Eutracia.”
Tristan rubbed his chin, thinking. “If the vipers and their lord were conjured by forestallment, there
are two possibilities,” he said. “Either some act triggered their coming, or they were brought alive
after a certain amount of time had passed. Which was it?”
For the first time in several days, Wigg smiled. “Well done,” he said to Tristan. “It was an
event-activated forestallment. At first we couldn’t be sure, but then I found something else in the
grimoire that helped us deduce the answer.” Another look of sadness overcame the wizard. “That,
plus a few personal recollections from the distant past that I’d rather forget,” he added softly.
Wigg reached across the table and took the red grimoire into his hands. As he did a pained
expression came over his face, as if he wished that his explanation could be handled some other
way. Tristan saw that a slim golden bookmark had been inserted between two of the grimoire’s
many gilt-edged pages. Wigg opened the book to the marked place, then ran a bony index finger
down the two facing, wrinkled pages. After a time he found what he had been searching for, and
he returned his attention to the group.
“Here is the forestallment formula that she devised to conjure and later summon the serpents,” he
said. “They were first conceived as embryonic beings, and she protected them with time
enchantments so that they would not die as the years passed. These notes state that the
embryos would be placed in a deep stream in Hartwick Wood. There they would lie in wait. The
Viper Lord was also placed there, but in his already fully realized form. He too was protected by
time enchantments.” Closing the book, Wigg looked around the table.
“When some predetermined event finally occurred, the spell automatically took effect,” he added.
“The Blood Vipers appeared and their master rose with them. The grimoire also states that the
Viper Lord was once a fully realized Vagaries wizard who served Failee in the war. In her notes
she reveals no qualms about morphing him against his will into some kind of cross between a
human being and a serpent. He might look much like the many creatures he commands. This
was supposedly done so that the Viper Lord and his servants would feel like kindred spirits,
bonding them to each other. She would then condemn him to the river along with her embryonic
vipers. The notes go on to say that the mission of the Blood Vipers and the Viper Lord would be to
search out all right-leaning endowed blood and destroy it. The plan’s entire motive was
vengeance, pure and simple.”
Shailiha pursed her lips. “Much like the Blood Stalkers,” she murmured.
“What was that?” Tristan asked.
Shailiha looked into her brother’s eyes. “The Viper Lord is much like the Blood Stalkers that the
Coven used during the Sorceresses’ War,” she answered. “The stalkers were morphed wizards,
turned to Failee’s purposes. They became partly human and partly…something else. They could
also detect endowed blood, and like the Viper Lord they were used to hunt down and kill the
Coven’s enemies.” She turned to look at Faegan. “I’m right, am I not?” she asked.
Faegan nodded. “But these new threats are even more dangerous,” he added. “We believe that
the Blood Vipers already far outnumber the late Blood Stalker ranks. Worse, they are commanded
by a wizard—one who probably still commands the craft.”
“Does the grimoire reveal this wizard’s identity?” Tristan asked.
Aeolus turned toward Tristan. “Despite the many myths that have grown up over time about the
Sorceresses’ War, Failee had many wizards in her service,” he answered. “The Viper Lord might
be any one of them.”
“Why do the Blood Vipers—or perhaps their lord—remove the livers from their victims?” Traax
asked. “That makes no sense.”
Tristan watched as Faegan reached into a pocket of his robe to produce a small rectangle of
glass. The prince soon realized that there were in fact two pieces, with something red
sandwiched between them. Faegan placed it on the table.
“I took this from between the teeth of the Blood Viper that Tyranny brought home,” Faegan said.
“What is it?” Tyranny asked, taking another lungful of smoke and blowing it toward the ceiling.
Wigg scowled and waived a hand in her direction. “Must you practice that foul habit here?” he
demanded.
Undaunted, Tyranny scowled right back at him. Clearly neither was in a mood to take orders from
the other.
“No,” she answered, “but I like it.” Taking another pull on the cigarillo, this time she blatantly
exhaled the smoke through her nose.
Wigg shook his head. “I’m too tired to argue about it,” he said. “Pollute yourself with that stuff if
you must. But at least allow an old wizard to breathe some clean air while you do it.”
Wigg raised one arm and the gathering fog quickly disappeared. Tristan correctly guessed that
each time Tyranny exhaled more smoke the same thing would happen. It seemed that the two
intractable Conclave members had found a compromise. Tristan glanced over at Shailiha and
winked. The princess smiled back. As Faegan let go a muted cackle, Tyranny sighed and shook
her head.
Wigg cleared his throat. “That red bit taken from the Blood Viper’s mouth came from a human
liver,” he continued. “It was no doubt part of one that was incised from one of the many
Birmingham victims.” He paused for a moment as he looked around the table. “Not only is the
Viper Lord impaling his victims, his servants and perhaps even he himself are eating the excised
livers.”
For several long moments the room was silent. Shailiha could scarcely believe her ears, and she
fought back the urge to become ill. After taking a quick sip of tea, she looked aghast at Tristan to
see that her brother was equally stunned. She gazed back at Wigg with wide eyes.
“But why?” she breathed.
“I can answer that,” Jessamay said. “During the Sorceresses’ War many Vagaries practitioners
believed that devouring the fresh liver of an endowed person immediately granted the eater
greater power in the craft. This was never practiced among Vigors mystics, but it was common
among our enemies. The Old Eutracian phrase for this selective form of cannibalism is known as
cannabae carnetorus, or simply carnetorus. Although the theory was never proved beyond a
doubt, there is some lingering evidence indicating that it worked.”
His mouth still agape, Tristan sat back in his chair. “I beg the Afterlife,” he said. “But why eat only
the liver?”
“Because the liver performs a unique function in the human body,” Faegan answered. “All one’s
blood—be that blood endowed or unendowed—is filtered through it. The theory postulates that as
this happens, certain aspects of endowed blood’s power are continually left behind and trapped
there. The lost power is later regenerated as it courses through the bloodstream and is again
exposed to the Paragon—or so goes the theory. Vagaries practitioners believed that if the liver
was eaten raw, these filtered bits of errant power could be taken as one’s own. It logically follows
that the higher the quality of the victim’s blood, the greater the purloined power will supposedly
be.”
Pausing for a moment, Faegan thoughtfully pulled on his beard. “In truth, the idea is not as
far-fetched as it sounds,” he added quietly. “The entire notion of using the endowed blood of
others for various reasons has teased both sides of the craft for centuries.”
Tristan shook his head. “It’s monstrous,” he said softly.
“Yes,” Aeolus replied. “Like so many Vagaries practices.”
“Is it likely that the Viper Lord is also doing this?” Tyranny asked.
“Perhaps,” Wigg answered. “But there is an even larger question that must be answered.”
“And that is?” Jessamay asked.
“Whether the Viper Lord knows that Failee is dead,” Wigg answered. “If he has somehow been
informed, then what becomes of his mission? And if not, will he continue to ravage Eutracia in an
effort to continue her revenge? My guess is that he will, because that is what Failee would have
wanted. Only a Vagaries mystic of far greater power might induce him to stop. And as far as we
know, no such persons remain on this side of the world.”
Tristan reached out to pour a cup of tea. As he sipped it he could sense its stimulating effects
take hold almost immediately. He nodded his appreciation to Abbey; the herbmistress nodded
back.
Tristan put down his teacup. “Two things still need clarification,” he said. “First, is there a spell of
reversal in Failee’s grimoire that might help us deal magically with these monsters and their lord?
And second, do you have any idea what act initiated the forestallment allowing them to rise from
the river?”
“The grimoire contains no reversal spell,” Faegan answered sadly.
“And what act triggered the forestallment?” Abbey asked.
Wigg again reached out to take up the grimoire. It is such a small book when compared to the
Tome, Tristan thought. But its secrets can loom equally large. He watched Wigg open the book to
another page beyond where the golden bookmark lay. Wigg placed the opened book onto the
table, then beckoned everyone to view its pages.
Tristan leaned forward and saw that the pages were written in green ink. He had seen the book
only briefly when he, Wigg, and his late wife, Celeste, had first found it deep in the bowels of the
Recluse, the Coven’s onetime stronghold in Parthalon. Seeing it again reminded him of Failee’s
elegant handwriting. These pages held only handwritten text, seeming to suggest that Wigg had
opened the book to the section that held the First Mistress’s private memoirs.
Tristan again looked at the First Wizard’s face and saw that the sadness had returned. Despite
Failee’s madness and her devotion to the Vagaries, Wigg had once loved her with all his heart.
How much pain had it caused him, Tristan wondered, to have read these pages and to relive even
so few moments from those terrible, heart-wrenching days?
Gathering himself up, Wigg pointed to a paragraph on the left-hand page. He cleared his throat.
“I will place the viper embryos and their morphed lord into a river flowing through Hartwick Wood,”
he quoted from the grimoire. “And toward that river I will try and draw the bulk of the Directorate’s
forces. That is where I and my sisters will make our final stand. Should we lose and the river run
red with Vagaries blood, I will know that I have failed. Then and only then will the Blood Vipers and
the Viper Lord arise to take vengeance in my stead.”
“What does it mean?” Traax asked.
“Hartwick Wood was where Failee wanted to start her final push toward victory,” Aeolus
answered. “She needed the dense cover that the woods provide, and now we know that this other
part of her plan was why she chose that place as well. But the Directorate didn’t take the bait. We
chose to meet her out in the open on the fields of Farplain. It would prove to be the largest battle of
the war, and we won the day. Even so, it was not the final conflict.”
“From what we have learned, it seems that endowed, left-leaning blood must somehow have
entered the river that Failee mentions in her grimoire,” Faegan said. “With no formula of reversal
to neutralize it, the spell keeping the embryos and the Viper Lord alive survived to this day. We
suspect that the amount of blood entering the river needn’t have been large. In fact, the
forestallment might have been activated by only a few random drops. We do not know whose
blood it was or how it came to be in the river. In truth, we might never know. The blood might even
have entered the water by accident rather than with malicious intent. We suspect that if Failee
had been able to have her battle there, if she saw that it was going badly she would have released
some of her own blood into the stream. Even if she had died, she would thus still have had her
vengeance. After all these years the problem has become ours to deal with.”
Thinking about Faegan’s explanation, Tristan sat back in his chair. Failee’s plan had been brilliant.
It had finally been put into action, perhaps by one or more persons of endowed blood who had no
idea of the ramifications of what he or she had done. Despite the many loose ends regarding all of
this, one thing was certain. The rampaging monsters and their wizard lord had to be killed. And it
must be done soon, before more Eutracians died and before the Viper Lord’s depraved
cannibalism perhaps increased his powers to such a degree that even the Conclave and the
Minions could not overcome him.
Deciding to change the subject, Tristan momentarily shelved his concerns about the Blood
Vipers. He gave Faegan a commanding look.
“What about the subtle matter?” he asked. “Do you have word about that as well?”
For the first time since the meeting started, Faegan smiled. Tristan knew that smile—it always
appeared whenever the crippled wizard possessed a secret that others were eager to learn.
Before answering, Faegan lifted Nicodemus from his lap and gently placed the cat on the floor,
where he began affectionately winding his body and tail around Wigg’s legs. The First Wizard
scowled.
“What we have learned about subtle matter will surely amaze you—perhaps even more than did
our news about the Blood Vipers,” Faegan said, wiggling his eyebrows up and down for
emphasis. “Prepare yourselves,” he warned, “for the tale that you are about to hear astonished
even us old wizards.”
As Faegan talked, Tristan leaned forward, hungering for every word. In the end, the crippled
wizard would be right.

CHAPTER XVI

MY WINGS ARE SO HEAVY , SIGRID THOUGHT. HOW I WOULD love to give the order to
land so that my warriors could rest and warm themselves beside a roaring fire. I have led this
patrol for the last sixteen hours straight, and still we have not found the man-serpents. But we are
Night Witches—we never surrender, we never give up. So I will lead my warriors onward until
dawn. When the sun comes up, perhaps then we will have better luck finding the monsters that
plague Eutracia.
Banking to the west, Sigrid knew that she needn’t confirm whether all her fellow Night Witches still
followed her. They were among the best fliers that the Minion ranks had to offer, and each
warrior’s resolve and talents equaled her own.
Forming these special reconnaissance groups had been Commander Duvessa’s idea, and the
Jin’Sai had heartily approved. Three such groups existed, and the moment one group landed,
another took flight. Each consisted of thirty female Minion warriors who had volunteered from
Duvessa’s elite fighting cadres. Specially trained in long-distance reconnaissance, the women
had been chosen for their stamina, fighting skills, and sharp eyesight.
Since learning of the existence of Rustannica and Shashida, Tristan had used the Night Witches
to check on Eutracia’s far-flung borders should the Pon Q’tar mystics somehow find a way to
cross the Tolenkas and attack Eutracia. News of the Night Witches’ exploits traveled fast, and the
patrol groups were quickly becoming legendary. Even the few remaining Minion males who
stubbornly grumbled about fighting alongside females had been heard whispering that if
something needed to be found, send a Night Witch to find it, for she would not come home
empty-handed.
Sigrid was cold and nearly exhausted. She knew that the warriors following her would be equally
spent. Closing her eyes for a moment, she did her best to stretch her tired back muscles as she
pulled her strong wings through the air, then used her stiff fingers to clear the gathering frost from
her face and eyelashes.
It is so cold at this altitude, she thought, shivering slightly. But the higher we fly the farther we can
see. If the man-serpents are ransacking another town, they might have set it ablaze as they did
Birmingham. So it is the fires that we seek rather than the creatures themselves. At this altitude
and in the dark of night, finding the man-serpents on the ground would be nearly impossible.
She let go a quick smirk. Even for Night Witches, she realized.
At twenty-five Seasons of New Life, Sigrid was young to command one of the newly formed
reconnaissance groups. That was partly because she was highly qualified and partly because of
the high attrition rate suffered by the Minions in their service to the Jin’Sai. Although the warriors
had fought well, their battles against Nicholas, Wulfgar, and Serena had taken a great toll. It would
take many generations of peace to replace their numbers. And like many warriors, Sigrid believed
that true peace would not prevail for a long time, if ever.
Duvessa formed the three groups because of her conviction that if Eutracia’s borders and
coastline could be better watched, future battle losses might be averted. She had never agreed
with the Conclave that all the Vagaries threats east of the Tolenkas had likely been quashed. She
had been saddened to learn of the man-serpents, even though their sudden appearance had
proved her right.
Because the duty would be hazardous, Duvessa insisted that only unattached females from her
fighting cadres be allowed to volunteer for the new units. After selecting and training the ninety
women herself, she had conducted a short ceremony during which she awarded each new scout
a pair of silver threaded wings to be sewn onto her body armor at the right shoulder. The women
wore them with pride, and the approving glances that soon came from unattached male warriors
had been a welcome side effect. Being a member of the Night Witches quickly became a great
honor.
Sigrid smirked again as she remembered how the name “Night Witches” had come into being.
They did not patrol only at night, but the name had stuck anyway. It was Traax who had unwittingly
granted them the title. Sigrid and her group had just returned from a long night patrol to descend
near the massive Minion camp lying just outside the palace walls. As it was tonight, the sky had
been dark and cloudless and the patrol had been a long one.
Landing tiredly on the dewy grass, Sigrid and her group had looked around to see Duvessa and
Traax standing nearby, waiting to perform a surprise dawn inspection on the unsuspecting camp.
Traax had walked over to speak with Sigrid. Eager to hear how Sigrid would comport herself,
Duvessa accompanied him. Despite their great fatigue, Sigrid and her warriors came to swift
attention.
Traax walked up and down their lines, looking them over with a steely gaze. He finally stopped
before Sigrid and stared into her dark eyes. As she had been trained to do when approached by a
superior officer, Sigrid squared her shoulders and focused her attention on a spot somewhere
just above Traax’s left shoulder. As the Minion second in command admired the silvery wings
embroidered into her leather body armor, Sigrid remained emotionless.
“Impressive,” he said simply. He turned to look at his wife. “So this is what you’ve been doing with
your spare time, eh?” he asked. He looked back at Sigrid. “How long was your patrol?”
Sigrid promptly clicked her heels together. “Twenty consecutive hours, my lord,” she answered.
“Nineteen of which were flown at an altitude of three thousand meters over the slopes of the
Tolenka Mountains.”
“Why do you fly so high?” he asked.
Sigrid was no fool. Traax was a member of the Conclave—he would already know the answer.
Just the same, she was duty-bound to reply.
“Since learning of the nations west of the Tolenkas, the Jin’Sai wants us to be on guard against a
Rustannican invasion force that might somehow cross over the mountains,” Sigrid answered.
“We patrol the coastline as well, searching for seaborne threats. Should we discover an
incursion, flying high will grant us a broad view of the enemy force, allowing us to better gauge its
size.”
Taking another step forward, Traax raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure that you’re not embellishing,
subcommander?” he asked. “There is little breathable air at that height. So little, in fact, that I can
think of few male warriors who can fly for so long at such altitudes. And we all know that our male
warriors are stronger, wouldn’t you agree?”
Sigrid immediately bristled at that remark, but aside from a slight narrowing of her eyes she didn’t
flinch. But she did break with protocol and look at Traax directly, putting him on notice. “It’s the
truth, my lord,” she answered sternly. “If you would like to consult with any of my fliers to confirm
our height and speed—”
Traax waved one hand. “That will not be necessary, subcommander,” he answered. Then he
grinned widely, telling her that he had only been teasing. It seems that the Minion second in
command is in a good mood this morning, a relieved Sigrid thought. Perhaps he hopes to catch
some lazy warriors still sleeping in their cots after reveille has sounded…
“I believe you,” Traax added, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Duvessa has told me all
about your exploits. Well done. You and your sisters do a great service to the Jin’Sai.”
Traax turned to smile at his wife. “They are indeed as proud as you say,” he offered. “And just as
arrogant, I might add! Given the way that they can fly, perhaps they are all Night Witches!” He
turned back to look at Sigrid. “You and your group get some rest,” he ordered. “You’ve earned it.”
Sigrid abruptly clicked her heels again. “Thank you, sir,” she answered.
Just then everyone heard the camp bugler sound reveille. Turning away, Traax and Duvessa
eagerly hurried through the encroaching sunrise to begin their surprise inspection. They will be
ruthless with anyone they find still asleep, Sigrid thought. Good. They need to be.
Traax hadn’t realized it, but every warrior in Sigrid’s group had heard the name he had called
them. And like all good names, this one stuck. By now many more females had offered to join the
Night Witches and new patrol groups were being formed. But no matter how many Minion women
joined, Sigrid would always be proud that she had been among the first. During the early days,
Duvessa led this group; then she had promoted Sigrid to the rank of subcommander.
Banking south this night, Sigrid changed course again. This new line would take her patrol directly
across the southern fields of Farplain, skirt the western boundaries of Shadowood, and return
them to Tammerland. It will be good to be home, Sigrid thought. I will grant each of my witches an
extra ration of akulee for flying so well. Her customary smirk emerged again. I doubt that anyone
will refuse, she thought. Not only can my witches fly and fight as well as most Minion males, they
can outdrink some of them, too.
Picking up the pace, she continued leading her group on this line for another quarter hour. Still she
saw nothing unusual. A quiet patrol, she thought. Just then she saw an orange-red light twinkle
against the dark ground some leagues ahead.
Narrowing her eyes, she pressed on harder, wondering whether she was seeing things.
Sometimes at great altitudes Minion warriors imagined things that weren’t there. Such false
visions were usually depictions of things that they desperately wished to see, such as
shimmering oases when the warriors were near death from thirst. When airborne, the warriors
called such teasing phantoms “sky mirages,” and they were known to be caused by prolonged
exposure to the thin air found at high altitude.
Duvessa had taught the Night Witches well about sky mirages, for she too had experienced them.
This would not be Sigrid’s first encounter with the seductive apparitions. Because they were seen
while airborne, sky mirages were more deadly than land mirages. They could cause the death of
an unsuspecting warrior as surely as any weapon made of steel, and nearly as fast.
There was but one way to deal with these phantoms. Duvessa had taught them. You must dive
as though your life depends on it. If not, you will suffer lightheadedness, followed by
unconsciousness. The fall to earth will be a quick one, with little hope of recovery before the end
comes.
Wasting no time, Sigrid snapped shut her wings and dived straight down. Every Minion knew that
the quickest way to bleed off altitude was to perform a free fall. As she watched the dark earth
come barreling toward her, each of her fellow Night Witches followed suit.
The cold wind was blinding at this speed, causing her eyes to water mercilessly. This made
seeing the ground even more difficult, creating a special danger all its own. “Watch carefully!” she
heard Duvessa’s voice call out to her again. “Pull up before you get too close! Only then will you
know whether the image that you questioned was real or imaginary!”
As the wind whipped by her and the air warmed, Sigrid’s labored breathing eased. She strained to
see the ground. Suddenly a treeline materialized out of the darkness, the tops of its branches
approaching far too quickly.
She snapped open her wings and pulled up hard, as she had done so many times while training
under Duvessa’s watchful gaze. Missing the tops of the trees by only a few meters, she leveled
off, then finally looked behind her. Seeing all twenty-nine of her Night Witches perform the same
heart-stopping maneuver was always an impressive sight. Reaching up with one hand, she wiped
the melted frost from her face and eyes, then swerved to change course again and she gained a
bit more altitude. Now we shall see, she thought.
Several minutes later the mystery was partly answered when Sigrid smelled dark smoke, pungent
and sickly sweet. Having already seen far too many Minion funeral pyres during her young life, she
quickly recognized the telltale odor.
Suddenly another stand of very tall trees loomed up ahead, their black branches nearly
indistinguishable from the dark blue sky. Pulling up hard, she narrowly missed them as they
brushed against her body armor. Just then she again saw the orange-red glow, telling her that this
had been no sky mirage after all.
Tanglewood was on fire.
Swooping lower, Sigrid waved one arm, signaling that she wanted her second in command to fly
up alongside. Valda came quickly. She was a strong and especially brave Night Witch, and Sigrid
trusted her with her life. Her hair was a lighter color than most. Like that of the other Night
Witches, it had been tightly braided and tucked beneath her body armor so that it wouldn’t harass
her during flight.
“What are your orders?” Valda shouted.
Reaching to one hip, Sigrid unsheathed her dreggan. Even with the night wind whipping by, she
could hear the blade briefly ring out as it cleared its scabbard. To a Minion warrior, that sound was
always a comforting, exciting thing to hear. Immediately after, she heard another welcome sound
as twenty-nine more dreggans simultaneously cleared their scabbards, their ring unmistakable.
With the light of the three Eutracian moons highlighting her face, Sigrid turned to look at her
number two warrior. The smile Valda saw was predatory.
“Take half the witches and start a search!” Sigrid shouted. “You curve to the east! I’ll curve to the
west! Take no direct action unless you are attacked! May the Afterlife be with you!”
Raising her free hand, Sigrid waved her fist first in one direction and then another, signaling that
the force should divide into predetermined halves. Each Night Witch knew with which half she
belonged, and the well-practiced maneuver was over almost as quickly as it started.
Sigrid looked over to see that Valda and her fourteen witches were gone. Then she quickly turned
to look behind her. Those witches still following her were close behind, their dreggan blades
shining in the moonlight. Her face grim, Sigrid led them directly over the heart of the city.
Most of the buildings had collapsed from fire. Black smoke and the sickening odor of burning flesh
rose into the air, limiting the witches’ ability to see and turning their stomachs. Soot soon
darkened their faces, their body armor, and their weapons. Sigrid reached up to wipe it from her
face, only to wonder a few seconds later whether the soot had once been part of a living human
being. Hysterical men, women, and children ran everywhere at once, some of them bloodied and
naked. The insane screams of the tortured and the dying seemed to fly alongside her through the
smoky air.
It’s like Birmingham all over again! she realized. The man-serpents must be here—but where?
Changing course, she led her witches toward the town square. Suddenly the grisly impalements
came into view along with the thousands of horrific man-serpents and the human victims on
whom they were doing their terrible work.
Sigrid clenched her jaw and tightened her grip on the dreggan. What was happening here easily
rivaled the atrocities that the Minions had been ordered to commit against the helpless citizens of
Parthalon when they served the iron will of the Coven. As in those terrible days, the brutality she
saw this night was heinous, and total in its depravity. Then she saw a lone figure in a dark robe,
standing in the center of the square. Swooping lower yet, she took her witches down for a better
look.
The bloody square was something straight out of some madman’s nightmare. Thousands of
citizens had been impaled; in many cases their organs dangled from their ravaged bodies. Most
looked dead, while others still writhed in agony, waiting for the reaper to come and gather up their
souls. Swooping closer, Sigrid took a good look at the figure in the dark robe.
What she saw stunned her. The being’s face wasn’t quite human, nor could it be called fully
reptilian. The tattered black robe that he wore spilled down over his wrists and boot tops. In one
hand he held a silver staff.
He was surrounded by thousands of obedient man-serpents. The creatures listened intently as
their master shouted out orders that Sigrid couldn’t hear. It seemed that his servants were
abandoning their grisly work. Coiled up on their tails and rearing into the air, ever more of them
gathered around to hear their master’s words.
That was when Sigrid realized that she had flown too low and had attracted the attention of
several man-serpents. Hissing loudly, they pointed to the sky. Soon thousands of them were
staring up and hissing viciously at the careening Night Witches. As Sigrid swooped by, she saw
their master snap his head around and glare at her with his yellow reptilian eyes. To her surprise,
he smiled.
Well aware that attacking would be suicide, Sigrid did her best to dig her wings into the night air
and gain some altitude. Her fourteen Night Witches followed her, but not one of them knew that
the Viper Lord commanded the craft. Realizing that he was seeing the Jin’Sai’s winged servants
for the first time, Khristos eagerly raised his staff.
The azure bolt that soared skyward was unlike any that Sigrid and her brave Night Witches had
ever seen. It pierced the dark night as a narrow beam and hurtled straight toward the center of
their group. Then the bolt suddenly flattened out and exploded with an eardrum-shattering bang.
Eight of Sigrid’s witches died immediately, their bodies, heads, and wings ripped apart by the bolt.
Two more were burned beyond the ability to stay airborne, and they crashed to the bloody
cobblestone square. The savage man-serpents set on them at once, tearing off their leather
armor and ripping their bodies apart even before they could lift their heads. To the delight of their
fellows, the creatures lifted the warriors’ body parts high and paraded them about the square.
Others writhed among themselves in orgiastic triumph.
Sigrid and the three remaining witches were burned but remained airborne. She immediately
screamed out an order to head south, but even as the words left her mouth she realized that it
was too late. Just as they started to turn, another azure bolt from Khristos’ staff came tearing
through the air.
The second bolt proved equally deadly. When it exploded, it killed Sigrid’s three remaining witches
immediately. This time Sigrid became showered with blood and bits of destroyed organs and
bone. She survived only because her fellow witches had been behind her and their bodies had
absorbed most of the blast.
Although she lived, Sigrid was shocked to the point that she could barely fly. Dazed and
weakened, she too started tumbling down. Desperately trying to think, she groggily realized that
she needed to break her fall. As she tried to straighten out her wings and regain control, the best
that she could do was to head toward one of the few thatch-roofed buildings that wasn’t ablaze.
As she tumbled through the air she knew that the end was near.
Then from somewhere she heard Duvessa’s stern voice counsel her again. “You’re a Night
Witch!” the voice said. “Never give up—never surrender! Think! Do whatever you must to stay
alive!”
Summoning her strength, Sigrid snapped her wings closed to protect them. She then took her
dreggan tightly into both hands and did her best to raise it over her head. Just before she crashed
into the roof, she brought the razor-sharp blade down with everything she had left.
She felt the blade slice into the bundled straw and cut straight through a slender roof joist, clearing
a path for her to fall through. Suddenly her dreggan struck against something hard and metallic,
the blow resonating so strongly that the sword was knocked from her hand.
Amid a hail of dust and loose straw she tumbled end over end into the building. At the same time
a great ringing sound suddenly tormented her ears as if she were standing in some great steeple
and someone was madly ringing its bell. As she crashed into the room, two more resounding
explosions came from overhead, combining with the mysterious clanging to create a deafening
cacophony.
Tearing through the roof, she tumbled the rest of the way down to crash hard upon a wooden
worktable. Like a dry twig being snapped in two, she heard as much as felt her left forearm break.
Then the table collapsed under her weight and she smashed hard onto the stone floor. Her eyes
closed and her head lolled over to one side. Some time passed; she would never know how
much.
As she lay there, a dense fog seemed to surround her. Her body felt weightless, her mind without
care. Is this what it means to be dead? she wondered. Her thoughts seemed forlorn and far away,
like the plaintive cry of a lonely wolf. Were those noises I heard the sacred death bells that our
graybeards talk about when a valiant warrior dies in battle and goes to the Afterlife?
Groaning, Sigrid opened her eyes. Lying on her back, she looked up to see the lifesaving cut she
had made in the thatched roof. A dark patch of sky lay beyond, silently embracing its network of
twinkling stars. Then the pain in her broken left arm reached out to bite her. She groaned again
and used her good arm to cradle her bad one.
It seems I’m not dead after all, she realized. But where am I? Then her mind cleared and she
remembered what had happened. Her blood ran cold as the deadly nature of her predicament set
in.
Sitting up was a huge struggle; standing was an even greater one. She hobbled to lean against a
wooden beam and took stock of herself. She hurt everywhere. Night Witch blood, bone, and flesh
still clung to her skin and body armor. Her returning wheel remained fastened to her hip, but her
dreggan was missing. Miraculously, only her left arm seemed to be broken. She could still fly, but
fighting would prove difficult. Then she remembered the terrible man-serpents and their powerful
master. She snapped her head around, all her senses on alert.
Why haven’t they come for me? she wondered. Perhaps the blinding light of the second
explosion shielded my crash through the roof. If not, the terrible things will be on me in moments.
But what caused all those awful clanging noises? Didn’t the man-serpents hear them, or did the
last two explosions mask them?
Sigrid looked around to see her sword lying in the pool of moonlight filtering down through the hole
in the roof. She hobbled toward it and picked it up. At least I will die with a dreggan in my hand,
she thought. Then she looked around the room, and the reason for all the clanging noises
became evident.
She had crashed straight through the thatched roof of a bellmaker’s shop. Cast iron bells of all
descriptions hung from the ceiling and from wooden crossbraces and lay scattered across
numerous work tables. A hearth full of dwindling coals lay on one side of the room. A massive
bellows stood beside it as if waiting for the bell master to return and use it to set the hearth
glowing brightly again. More tables held variously sized bell knockers, casts, and odd bits of
hardware. An old sign that had seen better days hung crookedly on one wall, reading “House of
Ryburn and Sons, Bellsmiths.”
Then Sigrid remembered her dreggan striking something hard after it sliced through the roof joist.
One of the bells, she realized. A quick look at her sword showed that its blade was undamaged.
Bless our Minion swordsmiths, she thought.
Suddenly she heard a sharp scream pierce the night. It seemed to come from the square. She
turned in that direction to see a smashed-out window frame in the far wall, moonlight streaming
through it onto the dirty floor. Cradling her left arm, she quietly crept toward the opening and
peered outside. She soon discovered what was occupying the man-serpents’ attention.
Eight of the brave Night Witches from Valda’s group were being systematically impaled. Like
Sigrid’s group, the rest must have been killed while airborne. That explains the last two explosions
I heard, she realized. In anguish, Sigrid watched the grisly process unfold. Tears formed in her
eyes as her fellow Night Witches began dying one by one.
Tyra was the first to suffer. She was already stripped naked and standing before the serpent
master. He seemed to regard her with particular interest—perhaps because he had never seen a
Minion before, Sigrid supposed. Finally he seemed satisfied. He snapped his fingers and his
servants began the grisly process.
As four of the awful creatures impaled Tyra she screamed insanely and fought back as best she
could, but it was no use. Soon the hideous task was finished, and the lower end of the sharpened
stake was pounded into the ground among the bloody cobblestones. Then the dark master
walked toward Valda, the next Night Witch waiting in line. As he neared, she shouted out a Minion
epithet, then spat in his face. Unperturbed, the serpent master nodded, and the process started
anew.
Nearly insane with desperation, Sigrid grasped her dreggan handle so tightly that her knuckles
went white. She tried to ignore Valda’s screams, but it was no use. How she wanted to go
charging into the square and somehow get close enough to the mysterious serpent master to cut
him down! But she knew that would be suicide. Her chest heaving, she turned her back toward
the wall and slid down it, squatting on her haunches. Placing the cool dreggan blade flat against
her forehead, she closed her eyes.
Think! she ordered herself. You’re a Night Witch Commander! What will you do?
Suddenly Duvessa’s training returned. “Always remember these words, Night Witches,” she had
warned them. “Your first responsibility is to survey and report, regardless of the circumstances.
Bring your precious information home at all costs. Worry not for your own life. Because you are a
Minion, it ended the instant you were born.”
Sigrid realized that she had to find a way to escape and get home. But that would mean leaving
her sisters to their awful fates. Can I really do it, she wondered, only to forever know that I
abandoned them?
She opened her eyes and looked around again. Perhaps there was another way out of the bell
shop. If she could find it she might be able to take to the dark sky unnoticed. After several
nerve-racking moments she saw a wooden door in the back wall. She looked again around the
abandoned shop. What few exits she found were not promising.
There were few ways out. Using the front door or the smashed window frame was out of the
question because each faced the square, and every other window was too small to crawl through.
The gaping hole in the roof was a possibility, but she would need two uninjured arms to climb up
and reach it. The only alternative was the far door, but she had no idea what horrors might lie
beyond it.
Deciding that she had no other choice, she quietly crept for the far door. About halfway there she
heard a strange tinkling that sounded like breaking glass. Holding her dreggan high, she swiveled
around to look. Her blood ran cold.
One of the horrible man-serpents was slithering through the smashed window frame that she had
just abandoned. Because the thing was about the size of a man, it barely fit through. As it came,
bits of broken glass still lodged in the woodwork scratched at its body, became dislodged, and fell
to the floor. Fully intent on squirming its way into the room, the monster hadn’t seen Sigrid.
Holding her dreggan high with her good arm, the Night Witch quietly retreated, melting into the
shadows.
Using its strong arms, the monster finally forced its way into the room. It quietly dropped free of
the window frame and started slithering across the floor. After traveling a few feet, it stopped.
Coiling its spotted tail, the thing reared into the air, much like a Eutracian cobra just before it
strikes. Its yellow eyes darted around the room. After letting go a soft hiss, the beast opened its
mouth and its red, forked tongue slithered forth to test the dank air.
Sigrid held stock-still, waiting for her chance. Can the thing smell me with its tongue? she
wondered. Despite the coolness of the night, sweat started beading on her forehead and her
hands became slippery. As the awful thing hissed again and tested the air, Sigrid did her best to
steel her resolve.
She considered running for the nearby door, but then she realized that it might be locked. She
could probably smash the lock open with her dreggan, but she didn’t know how fast the
man-serpent was, and losing those precious seconds could kill her. And so she waited. Come to
me, you vile bastard, she prayed. Come to me and we will do this thing.
Hissing loudly, the man-serpent started savagely ransacking the room. It seemed oblivious to the
great ruckus it was making. Using its muscular arms it crazily scattered bells, threw hardware,
and upended furniture as it scoured the place, searching for more Night Witches. Sigrid cringed
as she begged that the clamor wouldn’t attract more of the awful things into the shop.
She looked down at the returning wheel attached to her left hip. She was an expert at throwing the
wheel—some said that she ranked among the best. In these close quarters, missing was almost
unthinkable. If she launched the wheel at the beast from the darkness of her hiding place, the
thing would never know what hit it. Given all the noise the beast was making, even if the wheel
sliced straight through it and struck one of the interior walls, the crash would surely mix with the
ongoing clamor. But if she was going to do it, it must happen before the awful thing stopped
rummaging about. She desperately needed to escape, and time was fleeting.
Silently sheathing her sword, she reached down to her left hip and freed the shiny, saw-toothed
wheel from its carrying place. Raising it high, she drew it back over her left shoulder, coiled the
muscles in her throwing arm, and waited. The beast was still rifling through the shop, angrily
scattering things and turning over furniture with abandon. Just a little closer, she silently pleaded.
As though it had read her thoughts, the man-serpent suddenly stopped to listen. When it heard
nothing, it used its long tail to propel it nearer the center of the room, scattering more objects as it
went. Sigrid tried to calm her heartbeat, but suddenly her broken left arm shouted at her again,
making her wince. Steadying herself once more, she watched the awful thing come nearer.
That’s right, she begged silently as the thing slithered closer yet. The red tongue appeared again
to quickly taste the air, then disappeared back into the grotesque mouth.
Come to me, Sigrid thought. Come closer and taste my sharp surprise.
Still the monster neared. The time had come.
Throwing the wheel with everything she had, Sigrid held her breath and watched it go spinning
across the room.
The monster’s reflexes were amazing. As the throwing wheel flashed through the beam of
moonlight shining down through the hole in the roof, the beast moved with unheard-of speed and
dropped straight to the floor. Sigrid watched in horror as her wheel flew harmlessly above the
beast only to bury itself in the far wall.
Knowing that she had no other choice, the night witch drew her dreggan and quietly stepped from
the shadows. Hearing Sigrid’s blade ring out, the monster snapped its head around and let go a
vicious hiss. It quickly coiled upright again, its yellow eyes flashing greedily as they finally sighted
their prey. Without hesitation it reared back, then launched straight for her.
As the creature sped near, Sigrid swung her dreggan in a flat arc, hoping to separate the
monster’s head from its body with one swing. But again the man-serpent was too fast.
The beast deftly sideslipped the blow, and the dreggan severed nothing but air. Before Sigrid
could summon another swing, the monster dropped flat to the floor again, this time raising its
powerful tail. The tail cracked through the air like a bullwhip, its far end wrapping tightly around the
hilt of Sigrid’s dreggan. The beast quickly snapped its tail again, ripping the sword from Sigrid’s
grip and sending it flying across the room.
The precious dreggan skidded across the floor and disappeared into the shadows, putting the
man-serpent squarely between Sigrid and her fallen weapon. The Night Witch nearly panicked as
she realized that her sword might as well be ten leagues away for all the good it did her now.
As the beast hissed and glared at her, Sigrid quickly reached down to unsheathe her Minion
dagger, but it wasn’t there. She had no time to mourn the loss, for the terrible creature suddenly
launched itself at her again. Sure that she was about to die, Sigrid charged forward to meet it.
As the two enemies clashed in the center of the room, the monster swiftly took each of Sigrid’s
wrists into his hands. The pain in her broken left arm lashed out and Sigrid screamed, exposing
her injury. Seizing on its unexpected advantage, the monster let go of her right wrist while
tightening his grip on her left one. Screaming again, Sigrid had no choice but to drop to her knees.
Helpless, she watched the awful thing move its face near hers. The terrible mouth opened again.
Sigrid tried to turn away as the monster sent its tongue sliding over first one of her cheeks and
then the other, exploring them, tasting them. Finally the awful tongue retreated into the waiting
mouth.
Knowing that Sigrid was beaten, the thing finally let go. Pointing to the front door of the shop, it
hissed again. There could be no question about what it wanted, Sigrid realized. She was to leave
the shop as his prisoner. Like Valda and the other Night Witches, she would soon be impaled at
the viper master’s pleasure.
There was only one more weapon available to her. It was one that all Minions were born with, one
that they carried forever after, and one that Sigrid knew how to use with deadly expertise. It was
her last hope, but she was too close to the beast to use it. Everything depended on her gaining
some distance from the monster, and the timing had to be perfect.
She nodded submissively, suggesting her surrender. The monster smiled and pointed toward the
door, silently ordering her to go first. Clearly he had no intention of turning his back on her. Putting
on her best look of defeat, Sigrid shuffled past the beast, then quickly put some precious distance
between them. The man-serpent hadn’t counted on her marching to her death so quickly, and that
was just what Sigrid had hoped.
When she was about two meters away she abruptly stopped, then turned to the right, placing her
at right angles with her captor. Summoning every bit of strength remaining, she snapped open her
right wing.
The man-serpent never saw it coming. As Sigrid’s wing flew open, its hard-boned leading edge
caught the monster directly across the throat. At first the thing just stood there, gasping and
retching. Sigrid immediately retracted her wing and repeated the blow. This time it struck the
beast in the forehead. As the light went out of its eyes, its neck made a cracking sound. The
thing’s head fell rearward to dangle at an unnatural angle. Then the man-serpent collapsed like a
house of cards, dead before it hit the floor.
Cradling her left arm, Sigrid hurried for the rear door. Hoping against hope, she grasped the rusty
door handle and gave it a turn. Blessedly, it opened.
The alleyway beyond was dark, dirty, and deserted. Wasting no time, Sigrid ran a few quick steps,
then did her best to launch into the air. Her left arm didn’t matter—nothing did, save for getting
away. As she struggled to gain altitude she heard another of her Night Witches scream out.
As she curved her way south toward Tammerland, this time her watery eyes were not caused by
the passing wind.

CHAPTER XVII

AFTER TAKING A SIP OF ABBEY’S ROBUST TEA, TYRANNY stabbed another cigarillo between
her lips and lit it with a match. The Conclave meeting had been going on for some time and she
doubted that it would conclude soon. As she casually blew the smoke out her nose, she turned
her skeptical gaze toward Faegan.
“We’re listening,” she said drily. “By all means, amaze us with your acumen.”
Tristan smiled. He knew that Tyranny’s sarcasm was in jest. But like Tristan, she accepted
nothing on faith, and she was quite comfortable with challenging the Conclave mystics and their
theories.
Faegan let go a little laugh. “Very well,” he answered quietly. “I will try to do that very thing.”
Pushing away from the table, he wheeled across the room to a mahogany cabinet. He opened
one of the cabinet doors and produced a cylindrical object. Cradling it in his lap, he returned to his
place, then gently set the strange item on the table for everyone to see.
Tristan leaned forward to look. The glass jar was about a foot high and six inches in diameter. Its
top was sealed with red wax, and it was nearly filled to the brim with subtle matter. The flickering
firelight seemed to bring the microscopic bits to life. Such a wondrous and beautiful thing, he
thought. I suspect that my venerable mystics have yet to unravel all its secrets.
Faegan pointed at the jar. “As best we know, this is all the subtle matter that exists on our side of
the world,” he said. “There is no known way to produce more. But we have learned a little about
how to use it.”
“This is the same material that formed the maps of Rustannica and Shashida, and the formulas
and the written words that hovered below them,” Shailiha mused. “How did it get into the jar?”
“After the rest of you left the room, Wigg and I stayed behind talking,” Faegan answered. “To our
surprise, something else started happening. For the last three days we have done little but try to
unravel its secrets. We have made some meager progress, but there are many more riddles
about subtle matter that are far from solved. But one use for the amazing substance has come to
light.”
“And what is that?” Traax asked.
Wigg leaned forward over the tabletop. “A way to help us cross the Azure Sea,” he answered.
The room went silent. It seemed that no one wanted to ask the obvious question for fear that
doing so might make the answer disappear. Finally Tristan placed one hand atop Wigg’s.
“Tell us,” he said softly.
Wigg pointed at the glass jar, causing it to slide toward him. He picked it up and regarded it with
great reverence. Then he looked over at the Jin’Sai.
“Before now, we believed that only three things could truly employ the power of the craft,” he said.
“Can you name them?”
“Certainly,” Tristan answered. He looked at the jewel dangling against Wigg’s chest. “One is the
Paragon.”
“And the others?” the First Wizard asked.
“Endowed blood and the red waters of the Caves,” Tristan answered.
Wigg gently placed the jar back atop the table. “Correct,” he said. “Our recent discovery of subtle
matter makes four such things. These are indeed days of great importance in our understanding
of the craft. But subtle matter holds rare properties that even the Paragon, endowed blood, and
cave water do not.”
“What do you mean?” Shailiha asked.
“As you already know, the Paragon and endowed blood are tools by which the power of the Vigors
and the Vagaries are made available for certain human beings to use,” Jessamay said. “This
power comes from the two opposing orbs. But even the Paragon and endowed blood are mere
conduits. Simply put, subtle matter is a unique form of pure magic that has been captured rather
than simply empowered. Normally we do not see the magic itself, only its results. But this is
magic that can be literally held in one’s hand. The treatise confirmed our suspicion that it is the
light of an azure bolt, changed into a different physical form. It is no oversimplification to say that if
there is such a thing as enchanted dust, this is it.”
Tristan again stared at the mysterious powder. How incongruous, he thought. So powerful a
substance, trapped inside such a fragile vessel. He looked back at Wigg. “Is it alive like endowed
blood?” he asked.
Faegan shook his head. “No,” he answered. Then he thoughtfully tugged on his beard, thinking.
“Or perhaps I should say that it is not ‘alive’ by any definition of the word that we understand,” he
added. “We now command one of its uses, but most of the others still escape us.”
“How did it become trapped in the jar?” Shailiha asked. “Was that the strange happening that you
referred to?”
Wigg nodded. “Faegan and I watched in horror as the subtle matter unexpectedly scattered,
breaking apart the map, the associated formulas, and the treatise. The subtle matter then
coalesced into a cloud and began careening around the room. At first we couldn’t imagine why.
Was it about to form another message, perhaps? The longer it flew about, the more it seemed to
be searching for something. When it found what it wanted, we got our answer.”
“And what was that?” Tristan asked.
“It needed a resting place,” Wigg answered. “When it neared this ordinary glass jar sitting atop
one of the Archives shelves, the jar magically emptied. It previously held several scrolls of small
importance. As the scrolls drifted to the floor, the subtle matter immediately flew inside. The red
wax seal formed immediately after.” Wigg raised an eyebrow. “It was an interesting process to
behold,” he added. Wigg’s talent for understatement was far from lost on him, the prince smiled.
“What then?” Traax asked. “How did you come by all this newfound knowledge?”
“Part of the information hovering below the map was a craft treatise written by the Ones,” Faegan
answered. “My guess is that it only scratches the surface of this particular discipline. Only a few
uses for subtle matter were shown. No doubt the Ones wished that the entire discipline not be
given away for fear that the Tome and the two Scrolls—the relics from which all this new
information was so recently gleaned—had simultaneously fallen into the wrong hands. The
information is sparse, and because the Tome and the two Scrolls were its originating source, it is
aeons old. Because so much time has passed since the writing of the Tome and the two Scrolls,
there is simply no telling how much farther the Ones have advanced the craft. Despite what we
consider to be the treatise’s supreme complexity, for the Ones it might be little more than some
schoolchild’s lesson. It was written in a complicated dialect of Old Eutracian that we have yet to
completely decipher. But we have learned enough to know that it was a short discourse in several
uses of subtle matter.”
“And because the subtle matter swirled its way into that jar, whatever hasn’t already been learned
is lost forever,” Traax lamented.
Aeolus let go a soft cackle. “You’re forgetting something, my winged friend,” he said. “True, the
message that the subtle matter briefly formed has been disassembled and transferred to that jar.
But Faegan read it first! And in its entirety, I might add! Remember, he commands the gift of
Consummate Recollection. The message is gone, but it will never be forgotten. Because of its
highly important nature, Faegan recorded the entire treatise on parchment. He has done the same
with the formulas and with the map of the territories west of the Tolenkas. Each document rests
safe under lock and key in the Archives. Along with the Tome and the two Scrolls of the Ancients, I
daresay that they rank among the Redoubt’s greatest treasures.”
Impressed, Traax glanced at Faegan. The crippled wizard’s only response was to smile and
bounce his bushy eyebrows up and down.
“I’m confused,” Abbey said. “How can subtle matter help us to cross the Azure Sea?”
Cackling again, Faegan jabbed a bony index finger into the air. “How indeed?” he asked. “Allow
me to perform a brief demonstration.”
Looking around the room, Faegan spied an unlit oil lamp resting on a nearby bookshelf. With a
wave of his hand the lamp lifted into the air and came to land atop the meeting table. Then he
commanded the jar full of subtle matter to slide toward him.
Faegan pointed his index finger at the wax seal. It soon disappeared, leaving the jar open at the
top. Beckoning with the same finger, he caused some of the microscopic bits to leave the jar and
float into the air. The individual particles were so tiny and few that had they not twinkled, the
Conclave members would not have seen them. Faegan moved his finger again, causing the tiny
particles to hover directly over the oil lamp. He placed his hands flat on the tabletop.
“Observe,” he said quietly. The wizard closed his eyes and called on one of the spells found in the
treatise.
Tristan watched as the twinkling bits of dust descended toward the oil lamp. At first nothing
happened. Then the twinkling stopped and the entire lamp started to glow. Tense seconds
passed. Tristan’s mouth soon fell open with astonishment.
The oil lamp was shrinking.
Smaller and smaller it became until it was no larger than a thimble. As the lamp stopped glowing,
a hush fell over the room.
His mouth still agape, Tristan looked first at Faegan, then at Shailiha. Faegan only smiled. The
stunned look on Shailiha’s face mirrored her brother’s.
Tristan finally found his voice. “I beg the Afterlife…” he breathed.
“Oh, this has little to do with the Afterlife,” Faegan exclaimed, laughing.
Lacing his fingers together, Wigg leaned nearer. “Faegan is right,” he said softly. “The act of the
craft that you just saw was true miniaturization. We mystics have long thought it possible, but until
now it was quite beyond our knowledge.”
“Is the oil lamp the same in every respect save for its size?” Tyranny asked. She was still so
amazed that she could barely speak.
“Yes,” Aeolus answered, “except for its weight. That property is now also reduced to a level
commensurate with the lamp’s new size.”
As though still unable to believe, Shailiha leaned forward to touch the shrunken lamp. As she did,
Faegan gave Tristan a knowing wink. Just as Shailiha’s fingertip touched the lamp, Faegan used
the craft to set the lamp’s tiny wick alight. Jumping back, Shailiha let go a little shriek. As the other
Conclave members laughed, Shailiha’s face reddened briefly.
Faegan reached out to pat her hand. “I’m sorry, Princess,” he said, “but I just couldn’t resist. As
Aeolus said, save for its reduced weight and size, the lamp is the same in every respect.” He
gave her a quick wink. “It can even produce light.”
Tristan’s thoughts soon returned to Abbey’s earlier question. He looked over at the First Wizard.
“This is all very interesting, but how does it help us to cross the Azure Sea?” he asked.
Faegan gave him a little smile. “Can’t you guess?” he asked.
Tristan shook his head. He clearly remembered the Azure Sea. It was a vast, beautiful, and most
likely very dangerous place. I can imagine only one way to cross it, he thought. But we can’t do
that because… Suddenly understanding, he looked at Faegan as if the wizard had just gone mad.
“You must be joking,” he whispered.
“Oh?” Wigg countered. “And why is that?”
“You can’t do it, that’s all!” Tristan protested. “It would never work!”
“And just why not?” Aeolus countered. “After all, you saw what happened to the lamp.”
“But to shrink them to such a small size—could it really be done?” Tristan asked.
“Perhaps,” Jessamay said. “But the process wouldn’t be without its problems, nor would the
ensuing journey.”
“What are you talking about?” Tyranny demanded.
Shaking his head, Tristan gave the Conclave privateer a look that said he was still stunned. “They
mean to shrink the Black Ships to a size that can be carried into the Caves of the Paragon,” he
said, hardly believing his own words. “We would then transport them to the shore of the Azure
Sea—presuming that we can find it again. The vessels would be placed onto the water and set
adrift. From there I can only guess that more subtle matter would be used to restore them to their
original size.”
He turned to glare at Wigg. “Could such a thing really work?”
“Perhaps,” Wigg answered. “Unless we try, we might never reach Shashida. Remember, the
Tolenkas cannot be crossed—even by the Ones and the Pon Q’tar. Sailing north or south on the
Sea of Whispers will only bring us up against dangerous ice packs. We know—it was tried many
times during the Sorceresses’ War while attempting to outflank the Coven’s forces. We could fly
the ships over the ice, but for how long? That too has been tried without success. Worse yet,
going in either of those directions might take us farther away from Shashida rather than toward it.
Of even greater importance is the message formed by the subtle matter. ‘To reach Shashida you
must first cross the Azure Sea.’ It seems that we might have found a way after all.”
Wigg again raised an eyebrow. “Unless you know more about this than the Ones, and you can
imagine a better way to do the same thing,” he added drily.
Tristan let go a deep breath and sat back in his chair. He still couldn’t believe that he and his
fellow Conclave members were sitting around a table and talking about such a bizarre thing. As
the notion settled in, he looked back at Wigg.
“How would we proceed?” he asked.
“First let me show you something else,” Faegan said. The wizard closed his eyes. A few more
subtle matter bits freed themselves from the jar to land atop the lamp. Soon the shrunken lamp
glowed again. Then it started to grow. On reaching its original size, it stopped. The lamp was
again itself in every respect. Even its restored wick was still alight.
Faegan sat back in his chair. “We had to know whether the process could be reversed. As you
have just seen, that is the case. But major hurdles remain.”
“What hurdles?” Shailiha asked.
“Many, I’m afraid,” Aeolus answered. “First, our supply of subtle matter is finite and we have no
way to produce more. We do not yet know whether there is enough to do the job. We cannot use
more than one-fourth of it to shrink the four ships.”
“Why?” Tristan asked.
“Because an equal amount will be needed to return the ships to their original size atop the Azure
Sea,” Aeolus answered. “If we find Shashida and return, more will be needed to shrink them again
to take them from the Caves and yet more to return them to their normal size—unless we decide
to moor them on the Azure Sea and leave them there. Without enough subtle matter, the ships
will never return home. Before we make our first attempt we must calculate how much subtle
matter is needed to perform each transformation. We simply can’t afford to waste any.”
“There are other concerns as well,” Jessamay said. “The ships must be free of all crew members
before the process starts, because we cannot know what effect the subtle matter might have on
living things. Conversely, the ships must be fully loaded and as totally prepared as possible for a
voyage of undetermined length. We cannot know how far our journey might take us or what we
will face on the way. We will be literally sailing into the unknown. Moreover, we are assuming that
the ships’ cargoes will shrink inside them. If not, the cargoes will be crushed or the ships’ hulls
damaged. It is obvious that we must understand all these things before we dare to take the ships
into the Caves.”
“But damage to the ships or their outright loss might not be as catastrophic as it first sounds,”
Faegan said. “As you know, Wigg finally found the ships’ long-lost plans. If need be, another fleet
might be built. It might take years, but it could be done. Because the cost and manpower needed
would be enormous, if the four Black Ships that currently serve us can be safeguarded, we must
make every attempt to do so. We will therefore try to supply and transform one ship first, rather
than all at once.”
“And despite these obstacles you believe that the basic theory is sound?” Tristan asked.
“Yes,” Wigg answered. “What works for an object like that lamp should work for any object,
regardless of its size or weight. It seems that the only limiting factor will be our finite supply of
subtle matter.”
“How will you compute the amount needed?” Tristan asked. “It seems impossible.”
“It won’t be as difficult as you think,” Aeolus answered. “From the original plans we already know
how much a Black Ship weighs unloaded. The tricky part will be estimating the cargoes.” He
turned to look at Traax.
“That’s where you and your warriors come in,” he said. “You will fill one of the ships to the rafters
with supplies and arms. As you do, weigh and list each item that is taken aboard and compile a
total sum. We will then add that number to the empty weight of the ship to arrive at a total.”
“And then?” Tristan asked.
“The treatise states how much subtle matter is needed to miniaturize one pound of given
material,” Faegan answered. “From there we will formulate our calculations. We need enough
subtle matter to perform sixteen such transformations, or four times per vessel. If we have
enough, after Jessamay brings the fleet home and the ships are resting comfortably in their new
cradles, we will empty the ships of their crews, load them, and try our first transformation. If it
works, identical cargoes will be loaded onto the other ships and we will then miniaturize them as
well.”
Tyranny gave Faegan another skeptical look. She never liked having “her” ships tampered with, to
say nothing of this new madness that the mystics were proposing. Overwhelmed by what she
was hearing, she tousled her urchinlike hair.
“To what degree will you shrink the ships?” she demanded. Then she scowled and shook her
head—she still couldn’t believe that she was asking such a thing.
“That is of critical concern,” Faegan answered. “The smaller the object is to become, the more
subtle matter is needed. To put it simply, we will shrink the ships at least to a size that fits through
the opening to the Caves. As each ship shrinks, so too should its cradle. Each ship and cradle will
be packed into a crate for safekeeping and carried to the Azure Sea by Minion warriors. They
should be able to handle the loads, because as each ship shrinks, its weight becomes
commensurate with its decreased size. If the warriors cannot easily carry them, we can help
them with the craft.”
Tristan reached for his cup and poured some more tea. After a time he shook his head, thinking.
Can such a thing work? he wondered. If such learned mystics as Faegan, Wigg, Aeolus, and
Jessamay believe so, then it must be possible. After all, the oil lamp shrank before my eyes. But
a simple oil lamp and a massive Black Ship are very different things. After taking another sip of
tea he placed the cup back atop its saucer. I’ll believe it when I see it, he thought.
“Assuming for the moment that we are able to miniaturize the ships, some crucial decisions must
be made,” Wigg said. Reaching out, he took Abbey by the hand. The look on the First Wizard’s
face had again become somber.
“Only certain Conclave members should make the voyage,” he added, “because some must
remain behind to deal with the Viper Lord and his servants. Deciding who goes will not be easy.
For some it will mean staying behind to wonder whether their loved ones will ever return. For
others it will mean sailing off into the unknown, perhaps to their deaths. Who goes and who stays
will be of prime importance, not only to reach Shashida but to protect Eutracia as well. The goals
are equally important. In any event, one thing is certain.”
“What is that?” Shailiha asked.
“Regardless of what the other Conclave members do, Tristan must lead the voyage. And you
must remain here, Princess,” Wigg answered.
“Why?” Tristan asked.
Faegan leaned forward. Like Wigg, his expression had turned gravely serious.
“There are several reasons,” he said. “First, we know nothing about the Azure Sea or about what
dangers it might hold. There is a great chance that whoever goes on this voyage will not survive it.
If you and your sister die, the world will lose both the Chosen Ones. We cannot allow that to
happen.”
“Moreover, you are the Jin’Sai,” Wigg added. “The Tome clearly states that it will be you who must
first try to fulfill your and Shailiha’s mutual destinies. The Envoys of Crysenium stated that it
should be you who first returns to the other side of the world, not your sister. We believe that the
late Envoys’ wishes should be respected. Regardless of who else goes, you should lead the
voyage and Shailiha should remain here.”
As usual, Wigg’s logic was irrefutable. Hoping that his sister hadn’t been hurt by the news, Tristan
looked over and took one of her hands into his. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but Wigg is right. Will it
disappoint you to stay behind?”
Before Shailiha could answer, Faegan spoke up. “Do not worry, Princess,” he said. “Your mission
will have equal importance with your brother’s. You must command the Conclave in its war
against the Viper Lord. We mystics fear that the struggle will be far larger and deadlier than you
might suppose. Failee’s ancient servant will not be easily defeated. Unless we win, Eutracia could
perish, leaving Tristan and his group no one to come home to.”
Understanding, Shailiha gave her brother’s hand a squeeze. “It seems that we each have our
work cut out for us,” she said. “Just promise me one thing.”
“Anything,” Tristan answered.
The princess put on her best look of mock ferocity. “Just come home in one piece,” she ordered.
“I’ve gotten rather used to having you around.”
Tristan smiled at her. Just as he was about to respond, an urgent pounding came on the meeting
room door. “Enter!” Tristan shouted.
The door blew open to show Ox standing there. His chest was heaving and his face showed deep
concern. Crossing the threshold, he hurried into the room.
Tristan stood from his chair. “What is it?” he demanded.
“Pardon, but one Night Witch patrol find man-snakes and their leader,” the warrior said. “Sigrid
only one to survive. She hurt but Duvessa say she will be all right. All other Night Witches
impaled. Sigrid say Tanglewood nearly all destroyed by fire and most people there dead.” As the
massive warrior did his best to tell the tragic tale, Tristan could see the hatred building in his eyes.
“Ox want to kill all man-snakes,” he said, his voice lowering to nearly a whisper. “Will Jin’Sai come
and lead us?”
Tristan looked around the meeting table, then into his sister’s eyes. I will start this fight, he
thought. But if I sail for Shashida, Shailiha must finish it. As if she were reading her brother’s
mind, the princess nodded. He grimly nodded back.
The war against Failee’s Viper Lord is beginning, Tristan realized. May the Afterlife protect us.

CHAPTER XVIII

IT IS HOT AGAIN TODAY , VESPASIAN THOUGHT, AS HE STARED out over the massive,
bloodthirsty crowd. It was barely midday and already the huge red canopies had been stretched
over the arena, shielding the spectators from the sun. After taking a sip of wine, the emperor
again looked down at the carnage.
So many skeens, centurions, and wild animals had already been killed that one couldn’t tell
whether the sandy coliseum floor was bathed in blood or simply tinted by the sunlight filtering
down through the red canopies. Scattered limbs, bodies, and organs lay partly submerged in the
sand like bizarre islands in a sea of blood. Shattered chariots and smashed carriages lay about
as though they had been tossed there by giants. Dead and dying horses, wild beasts, and
weapons of all types could be seen by the hundreds.
And yet the first act has not concluded, Vespasian thought. The games had been going on for
four hours, but even now the first group of hard-fighting skeens continued to resist.
The emperor turned to look at Persephone. Sensing his gaze, she returned his glance and
smiled. She looked splendid in a yellow silk gown and delicate gold jewelry. Vespasian reached
out to grasp her hand. Despite the ongoing spectacle, for a moment her easy smile made it seem
as if the insane world inside the coliseum didn’t exist.
She is so beautiful, he thought. And I love her beyond words. Surely she is the best part of me.
After taking another sip of wine, Vespasian returned his attention to the games.
This was the seventh day of what would soon become nearly a fortnight of death and mayhem
taking place on the coliseum floor. Thousands of skeens and centurions and a host of wild
animals had already perished for the amusement of the crowd. Every day seemed to bring with it
some higher form of savage cruelty. Surprisingly, the unprecedented games had produced
another effect besides delighting the mob. Because he had personally ordered these games,
Vespasian’s already great popularity had risen even higher. Moreover, his newly proclaimed
campaign against Shashida and his announcement of the successful auspicium had also added
to his charisma.
Graffiti had sprung up throughout Ellistium providing adoring testament to the emperor’s bravery,
his vision, his amazing ability to use the craft. Heralds had taken to writing their own scripts that
proclaimed Vespasian’s magnificence, and they were brazenly reading them aloud from their
citywide towers. Young men—each one suddenly eager to become a part of their emperor’s new
campaign—were joining the legions in record numbers. For the first time in decades the mood
sweeping over Ellistium was wildly joyful. From the most august krithian all the way down to the
lowliest phrygian tradesman, each believed that his august emperor could do no wrong.
Vespasian looked around his viewing box. As usual, the Pon Q’tar clerics were in attendance, as
were the maidens of the Priory of Virtue. But Lucius and the other Tribunes were absent, readying
their mighty legions for the new campaign. Those forces of the Imperial Order that were afield had
been sent new directives telling them to withdraw from their current struggles and to turn north
toward home. Vespasian realized that an order of that magnitude would surely alert the
Shashidan Ones that something was brewing, but that couldn’t be helped.
When the forces stationed in the capital were ready, they would move south to join their brothers.
There they would regroup and head toward Shashidan territory. While the barges sailed south on
the six rivers, the legions would curve around from the west and east, devouring Shashidan towns
and armies while approaching the mines in a gigantic pincer movement. One week from now the
capital troops would be ready to depart Ellistium. Once they joined their fellows, the combined
invasion force would dwarf any in Rustannican history.
Hearing the crowd roar again, Vespasian looked back down at the grisly spectacle. The
combatants were reenacting the Rustannican victory at Messalina, a city that had been lost to the
Shashidans three centuries ago and then retaken in one of the bloodiest and most protracted
battles ever fought in the War of Attrition. Reenacting Rustannican victories was something that
the mob especially relished. Although no details about the new campaign would be made public,
its impending start was reason enough for the crowd to revel even more joyfully than usual in
today’s retelling of a Rustannican military triumph.
Vespasian watched as the Gates of Life swung open. Another ten chariots bearing three tribunes
each raced into the arena to go charging toward the Shashidan skeens still alive on the sandy
floor. Each chariot held a driver, an archer, and a lance thrower, every man an expert in his field.
Of the one thousand skeens that had been shoved into the arena at the start of the day, only thirty
remained standing. Most of them were bloodied and broken, and Vespasian doubted that they
would survive this fresh onslaught by the tribune charioteers. Even so, he reminded himself that
he could be proved wrong. The surviving skeens were clever and battle-hardened, and like all
Vigors worshippers they would fight to the death. The crowd knew this and reveled in it. Chanting
and stamping, they watched breathlessly as the ten chariots thundered in.
Unlike other spectacles, battle reenactments were staged affairs that more or less accurately
portrayed famous Rustannican military victories. With help from the craft, the entire coliseum floor
could be flooded, allowing mock warships to actually fight and sail atop the waves. Reenacted
sea battles were especially popular, and sometimes the small ocean entrapped within the arena
walls was filled with sharks and other man-eating creatures, adding a brief but grisly flavor of
unpredictability.
Although their outcomes were a certainty, these reenacted battles were not entirely without a
twisted brand of fairness. The Games Master was always careful to set equal numbers of
centurions and skeens against each other. No craft use was allowed by the centurions, because
all Shashidan skeens had been stripped of their power to use magic. The skeens were well
armed and given various forms of terrain that they could use as cover. Beasts were often
conjured from the mosaics adorning the arena walls to threaten and kill centurions and skeens
alike, adding another unpredictable facet to the spectacle. The skeens were even granted food
and water so that their strength would not falter and anger the crowd.
Because the battle to retake Messalina had been fought in rugged terrain, a miniature mountain
had been constructed of wood, painted gray, and placed in the center of the arena floor.
Measuring nearly fifty meters across and nearly as high, during the previous night it had been
brought piece by piece into the arena, where it was painstakingly rebuilt. Complete with rocks and
foliage, from a distance the small mountain looked amazingly genuine. Wild man-eating animals
that had been starved nearly to death roamed the entire area, threatening skeens and centurions
alike.
Despite such concessions made in the name of authenticity, the result was always a
Rustannican victory, lest the usually drunken crowd stage a riot. And so ever more
centurions—usually volunteers who were paid handsomely for the privilege of showing off their
various skills before an adoring public—were continually sent in until the last of the skeens and
the wild beasts were annihilated. If the skeens were proficient, killing them might take an entire
day. Despite their contrived outcomes, the finales always resulted in jubilant crowds. Whenever a
land or a sea battle was reenacted, the best seats often went for double the normal price, and the
bet takers, wine merchants, and prostitutes were even busier than usual.
Vespasian watched one chariot speed straight toward a group of skeens who had not been quick
enough to take refuge on the mountain. The specially crafted chariot was a beautiful thing—too
beautiful, Vespasian thought, to serve such an ugly purpose.
The chariot was painted dark blue and adorned with gold filigree. Two magnificent black stallions
sped it across the sand. The axle shafts running through each wheel hub had been extended,
reaching a good two meters sideways from either side of the cart. The wildly spinning axles were
also adorned with gold, and along their sides lay sharpened steel blades that spun madly with the
revolutions of the chariot’s wheels. As the driver whipped the team the archer drew back his bow
and the lance thrower hoisted his shining spear over one shoulder, preparing to strike.
But the clever skeens acted quickly. Banding together, they placed their shields side by side and
over their bodies, creating a dome that would provide them cover. Knowing that he had little time
to lose, the chariot archer loosed his arrow. It pierced a skeen shield but did not reach its owner.
Still the driver charged his chariot onward, directly toward the fragile house of shields. It seemed
that he was intent on driving his team straight into it regardless of the outcome. Then the lance
thrower tried, but his weapon skidded harmlessly across one of the angled shields and fell to the
sand.
The three charioteers immediately drew their swords. As the chariot charged ever nearer, the
turtle of shields defiantly stood its ground. Just then Vespasian realized that the defiant skeens
surely had a plan. They must act soon, he guessed, or they will be mowed down.
Sensing that a great collision might occur, Vespasian quickly stood and cheered his centurions
onward. Seeing their beloved emperor rise to his feet caused the crowd to shout even louder as
they too anticipated the crash.
Just as the chariot was about to mow them down, the skeens abandoned the turtle tactic and
formed two straight lines on either side. Unable to change direction quickly enough, the chariot
charged straight through the gap. But three of the skeens hadn’t been quick enough. Although
they tried to jump aside, the axle spikes found them, slicing each of them through at the waist.
Spurting blood, the grotesque halves tumbled to the thirsty sand.
As the horses tore between the skeen lines, the surviving slaves plunged their swords deep into
the stallions’ chests and struck out at their front legs. Screaming wildly, the two horses went
down, the stumps of their severed front legs burying into the sand. As the crowd roared, the
horses flipped forward onto their backs. Still harnessed to the team, the chariot also launched into
the air, turning upside down and crashing ahead of the tortured horses. The three charioteers
went flying onto the sand some distance away.
The tables had been turned, and the centurions were now at the mercy of the skeens. Because
the other nine chariots and their riders were busy elsewhere, Vespasian realized that this trio was
done for. Before they could rise to their feet, the jubilant skeens were on them, hacking them to
pieces. Starving animals then rushed in to pounce on two of the busy skeens and to devour the
scattered corpse halves.
Vespasian took a deep breath. So much blood and violence, he thought as he again sipped his
wine. But that part of our nature must remain if we are to defeat the Shashidans. We must stay
hard, brutal, and unyielding, for the price of our freedom is constant vigilance. Looking down, he
used an index finger to thoughtfully trace the rim of his wine goblet.
Perhaps if the Vigors are defeated we can someday forgo all violence, he mused. That is my
secret dream. But I fear that brutality might be forever ingrained in our blood signatures. After
aeons of cultivating violence, it will not be easily dismissed, even if I can secure a lasting victory.
He turned to look at Persephone again. Flushed with excitement, she watched eagerly as the
fighting raged on. More centurions were being let into the arena to take the place of their fallen
comrades, while the exhausted skeens could do nothing but watch and wonder how much longer
it would take them to die. As Vespasian’s attention focused ever more on Persephone, he was
reminded of the great request he had made of her the day before…

“WHAT BOTHERS YOU SO, MY LOVE?” PERSEPHONE ASKED.
Dipping her sponge into the warm water again, she soothingly used it to rub Vespasian’s naked
back. Closing his eyes, the emperor luxuriated in his wife’s loving gesture.
There were only two places in the world where Vespasian felt that he commanded total privacy,
and they were both in the royal residence. The first was in his and Persephone’s vast and
luxurious bedchambers. The other was here in their private bath.
Like attending the games, bathing—both public and private—had become something of an
addiction in Ellistium. Most people used the public baths, but some of the wealthiest citizens
possessed private baths. The public baths were often linked to other facilities such as massage
rooms, meeting places, exercise areas, eateries, and shops. Sometimes the water was heated
by the craft, but most often it was warmed in underground boilers connected to wood-burning
furnaces and was then piped into the bathing pools. As would be expected, the royal bath was a
sumptuous affair. Unless Vespasian and Persephone deigned to invite guests, this place was for
their use alone.
The room was large and beautifully appointed. Measuring thirty meters square, its walls and
ceiling were made of the finest turquoise and onyx. The floor was a subtly patterned mosaic of
white marble squares. A large rectangular skylight in the center of the ceiling allowed sunlight to
flood in. A dozen fluted columns stretched from the floor to the ceiling to support the four sides of
the massive skylight. The rest of the ceiling was comprised of a series of indented squares, each
one bordered by ornate gold moldings and painted with a different scene from Rustannican
antiquity. Shaped like the dark blue mosaic pool lying directly beneath it, the skylight let in not just
sunlight but also rainwater, reducing the need to continually add more water.
The bath walls were covered with colorful frescoes, separated every few meters by decorated
pilasters reaching from floor to ceiling. Scented water burbled from a golden spout in the center of
each wall to fall into another stone pool. Luxuriously upholstered sofas and chairs and ornately
framed mirrors had been placed about the room, and a host of handmaidens stood by to serve
every need of the Blood Royal and his wife. Two of the handmaidens provided lyre and flute
music, and caged birds added a soft chorus as sunlight streamed down through the atrium to
shimmer in the pool water. Vespasian’s personal masseur, a stout skeen who had served the
emperor for two decades, stood ready to employ his strong hands and exotic oils.
As Persephone gently rubbed his back, Vespasian flexed his naked body. He loved the royal bath,
but his mind remained troubled. His recent night terror had shaken him and he feared that another
might come. But even more worrisome was the thought that he might somehow be struck down
by one of these terrifying visions during the day for everyone to see. He knew that he could not
afford such an occurrence—especially with the advent of his new campaign.
He turned to look at Persephone. Only she understands me, he thought. Not even Lucius knows
me so well. Nor does he know about my secret weakness. How I need this woman…
Reaching up, he removed the elegant diamond clasp that collected her long blond hair. Tossing it
across the floor, he shook her tresses free, letting them slip into the warm water, and pulled her
naked body to his. Persephone smiled knowingly as she playfully laid her wet forearms on his
shoulders and looked into his eyes.
Smiling, she touched the tip of one index finger to the end of her husband’s nose. “You still haven’t
told me what troubles you,” she said. “Arousing me won’t stop me from asking, you know.”
Vespasian nodded. “Come,” he said. “Let’s talk.”
Looking across the chamber, he snapped his fingers at the handmaidens and the masseur. At
once they gathered up their things and left the room, bowing as they went.
Vespasian led Persephone through the shoulder-deep water toward the pool steps. As they
walked up he reached out to a nearby table and took up a heavy white robe, which he draped
around her wet body. Smiling, she squeezed the water from her hair.
Vespasian donned a matching robe, then led her to one of several lounging sofas and bade her lie
down. After filling two wine goblets resting on a nearby table, he handed one to her. As he sat
down beside her, the look in his eyes became searching.
She reached out to touch his face. “It’s your night terrors, isn’t it?” she asked. “That’s what you
need to talk about. I understand, my love. They would frighten anyone. But the two guards have
been killed. Only I know your secret, and it will never leave my lips.”
Looking down at his goblet, Vespasian shook his head. “It’s more than that,” he said. He took a
deep breath. “There is something that I must ask you to do for me. It will be dangerous, but I hope
that you will consent.”
“I would do anything for you, you know that,” she answered softly.
Vespasian put down his goblet. “I want you to accompany me on the new campaign,” he said
simply. “We leave in one week.”
Persephone was overjoyed. Her eyes widened and she took a quick breath.
“You know that I will!” she said.
Tears started welling up in her eyes. She had desperately feared watching him go to war, just as
she had done all the times before. But this time was different. This was to be an all or nothing
campaign, and the greater dangers involved had been driving her nearly mad with worry. As
Vespasian brushed away her tears, a short laugh of relief escaped her. At least if he dies I will die
with him, she thought.
“But why this time?” she asked. “I have never accompanied you before.”
As Vespasian sipped his wine his eyes took on a thoughtful, faraway look.
“There are several reasons,” he answered. “First and foremost, I have not been convinced by the
Pon Q’tar that the Jin’Sai won’t somehow find his way into our side of the world. He is amazingly
resourceful, as are his mystics. If that happens you will be far safer afield with me and the legions
than here in Ellistium, protected only by the Home Guard.”
“What leads you to worry that he can cross over?” Persephone asked. “If it is impossible for us to
do so, then surely the Jin’Sai and his mystics cannot. After all, their powers in the craft pale when
compared to ours.”
“That’s true,” Vespasian answered. “But Tristan has surprised us before. And remember, we still
cannot know the full extent of what he might have learned from the traitorous Crysenium Envoys.
But there is something more…something tugging at my heart since experiencing my first night
terror. It is almost as if he and I are connected somehow, despite the mountain range that
separates us. I can almost see him trying to reach us.” Shaking his head, he gave Persephone a
reassuring smile.
“But do not worry, my love,” he said. “If he should come we will deal with him and his flying
monstrosities.”
“And your other reasons?” she asked.
“I no longer trust Gracchus as I once did,” Vespasian answered. “I haven’t done so for some time.
I do not brand him a traitor, but I sense that he has some personal mission that does not entirely
match mine. Like my suspicions about the Jin’Sai, these are feelings that I cannot justify. But my
instincts are strong enough to tell me that should I be killed on this campaign, Gracchus might not
continue it in the way that I have planned—and our victory is vital. Four days ago, his scheme to
sacrifice so many skeens in the arena without my consent only added weight to my convictions.
While it’s true that Lucius might protest a change in the battle plan that Gracchus engineered,
even the First Tribune is outranked by the lead Pon Q’tar cleric. But you outrank them both. With
you in attendance, my wishes would be carried out. To override you, Gracchus would first have to
kill you while deep among Lucius and the combined legions. Lucius would immediately become
suspicious. Even the Pon Q’tar’s powers in the craft could not overcome their combined strength,
and Gracchus knows it. He would have no choice but to honor your commands.”
“I understand,” Persephone said. “But there is more to all this, isn’t there? I suspect that your
need to have me near also has something to do with your recent night terror.”
A grim look came over Vespasian’s face. “Yes, my love,” he answered. “I must admit that it does.
You are the only person that I dare trust with my secret. I have considered confiding in Lucius, but
even he needs to remain convinced that his emperor is totally fit and able to conduct this
campaign. And I am fit, aside from these strange and terrifying episodes. But there remains
something else about them that worries me even more.”
Reaching out, she lifted his chin and turned his eyes toward hers. “And what is that?” she asked.
“That someday one of these awful visions will overtake me while I am awake, for everyone to
see,” he answered. “I have no proof that such a thing will occur. Again, it’s only a feeling. But
should it happen I will need you by my side. You might be able to spirit me away before anyone
realizes that I am in such terrible distress. Should I suffer such a daytime attack in public,
Gracchus might well have me declared mad. According to Rustannican law, that is his right, but
only if he has reliable witnesses of my supposed incompetence. A day terror would provide him
with more evidence than he would ever need. With you by my side, should I fall ill, you can make
the needed excuses. Such explanations will be far more commanding coming from the empress
than from the First Tribune.”
As she listened to Vespasian’s words, Persephone realized that her husband was right. She
would gladly accompany him to the ends of the earth if it meant helping him win this new
campaign—to say nothing of keeping him in power.
“How will you explain this to the Pon Q’tar?” she asked.
Vespasian gave her a wry smile. “You need to stop thinking in those terms,” he said. “If something
happens to me, you will become the new ruler of Rustannica. You must quickly put your personal
grief aside, no matter how overwhelming it might be, and immediately take charge. Gracchus and
the others will start appraising your performance from the first moment. Stop worrying about how
you will explain things to them. Rather, it is their task to worry about whatever orders you might
give. To answer your question, I am the emperor. I will simply command that you come, and I will
do so without giving my reasons. To be forced into explaining myself would be seen as a sign of
weakness. That is something that we cannot afford—especially now.”
“And what of Rustannica?” Persephone asked. “If the campaign fails and we die, who will oversee
our beloved country?”
“After I announce that you are joining the campaign, I will ask Lucius to recommend a tribune who
commands his full trust,” Vespasian answered. “He will remain here and oversee the nation. It is
the most that we can do.” Vespasian sighed and took another sip of wine.
“But if the campaign fails, given the state of the treasury there will surely be a citywide riot,” he
added. “It might not be immediate, but it would surely come eventually. As the news of the defeat
and the treasury collapse spread, anarchy will devour the nation. With most of our forces
destroyed, we will be wide open for attack. The Borderlands will become useless, and the
Shashidans will be able to walk into our country unimpeded. The Vagaries will be destroyed and
the Vigors will rule forever.”
Persephone gave him a somber look, then lowered her face. “If I had been able to give you an
heir, some of our troubles would be solved for us,” she said softly. “The child would be young, but
at least someone of our bloodline would rule after we were gone. I’m so sorry, Vespasian. I
wanted a child more than anything in the world. But it was not to be…”
Vespasian put his hands on her cheeks and looked into the eyes that he so loved. “We haven’t
failed,” he said with a smile. “We simply have yet to succeed. We are far from the day when there
will be no more reason to try.” As he looked at her, his gaze suddenly became hungrier.
“I suggest that we waste no more time talking,” he said. “Actions speak far louder than mere
words.”
Standing, he removed his robe. As he did, Persephone looked up to see his muscular body still
wet and glistening with bathwater. She parted her robe, readying herself for him.
As Vespasian took her, the empress trembled and cried out as never before…

     AS ANOTHER TERRIBLE SCREAM REACHED HIS EARS, VESPASIAN’S thoughts returned
to the present. A Rustannican Heart Wolf freshly conjured from the arena walls was rooting about
in the innards of a fallen skeen. For a moment the dreadful creature paused its feasting to look
around the huge crowd. Fresh blood dripped from teeth and muzzle. As expected, the mob
cheered and stamped, begging for more.
Vespasian took a quick count to find that only five skeens remained standing. For the sake of
moving on toward the next act, the last skeens would be dispatched quickly. Then would come a
brief intermission while the fabricated mountain was dismantled and taken away. Another act of
today’s games would soon follow, then more after that until nightfall. When Vespasian reached
over to take Persephone’s hand, she turned and gave him a short smile.
This morning the emperor had publicly issued his order regarding Persephone’s attendance on
the impending campaign. As a precaution he had also handwritten the proclamation, then
commanded that the heralds shout it from every tower in the city even before the news was made
available to the Tribunes and the Pon Q’tar.
Vespasian had little doubt that the public would receive the news favorably. They loved their
empress, and he rightly guessed that seeing her go to war alongside her beloved husband would
only endear her to them more. He was quickly proved right when Persephone’s name was soon
being joyfully shouted aloud both in the city streets and amid the mayhem that was the coliseum.
But it had not been only for Persephone’s benefit that Vespasian had done this. Rather, if the
public widely approved, the Pon Q’tar would be harder pressed to accept his terms.
So far Vespasian’s gambit was working. He had heard rumors of some minor grumbling among
the Pon Q’tar and of surprise among some of the Tribunes. Even so, no formal protest had been
lodged. Vespasian knew that the longer the public rejoicing in this matter reigned, the better his
council would come to accept his edict.
Even so, despite the overwhelming agreement among the populace, Vespasian remained
somewhat worried that the Pon Q’tar had accepted his new order so gracefully. The surprising
lack of discourse usually accompanying so unexpected an order had unnerved him, forcing him to
again question the clerics’ motives.
Turning around, he looked at Gracchus. The lead cleric was on his feet, waving his fists in the air
as he cheered the deaths of the remaining Shashidan skeens. When at last he found Vespasian’s
gaze upon him, he bowed and smiled broadly. It was a wry smile, forcing Vespasian to guess at
what might lie behind it. Nodding in return, Vespasian again faced the arena, wondering.
As the last of the skeens died, hundreds more centurions rushed through the Gates of Life to start
disassembling the fabricated mountain and removing the debris. It would take some time,
Vespasian realized, for much of the mountain was littered with blood and the bodies and body
parts of skeens, centurions, and wild animals. Vespasian took another sip of wine and sat back in
his ivory throne. He would never forget that moment, for in the space of an instant his life suddenly
changed.
First the dizziness took him. It did not come all at once, but gradually, like the onset of too much
wine. Then the sweating started. As he tried to put down his goblet, he spilled a bit of wine. Soon
his hand was trembling, and he knew.
Desperately hoping that he could hide his condition from everyone but Persephone, he
immediately leaned over as best he could and touched her hand. When she turned to look at him,
she knew.
“Can you walk on your own?” she urgently whispered.
The best response that Vespasian could muster was to nod. Standing, he and Persephone
started making for the rear entryway that led to their private hallway. The empress knew that if she
and Vespasian could reach their private litter waiting just outside the coliseum walls, she could
draw the litter blinds and tend to him.
As they left the viewing box, everyone else stood and bowed. Luckily, most of them quickly
returned their attention to the arena floor. After quietly telling a few of the clerics that she and
Vespasian would return after the intermission, Persephone wasted no time following her husband
out.
Entering the relative safety of the hallway, she turned to look back. No one was following.
Breathing a short sigh of relief, she considered taking one of Vespasian’s arms to support him,
then thought better of it. If their charade was to go undetected, the emperor must be seen entering
his litter under his own power.
As they finally exited the coliseum, Vespasian was on his last legs. Summoning the craft, he used
it as best he could to help himself. His head still held high, he entered the ornate blue and gold
litter bearing his insignia. Persephone followed, then drew the curtains and called to the litter
bearers and the accompanying squad of centurion bodyguards to proceed quickly back to the
royal residence.
Vespasian lost consciousness in Persephone’s arms, leaving her to wonder again what was
happening to her husband’s mind and why. They were safe for the moment, she realized, but
when would Vespasian return to her, and what would he be like when he did? Despite her many
questions, one thing was certain.
Vespasian’s day terrors had begun.

CHAPTER XIX

THOSE NEW CRADLES HAD BETTER HOLD UP , ADRIAN THOUGHT.
Standing on the bow deck of the Tammerland, she looked westward to where the strange
structures lay beside the royal palace. I hope the other Conclave mystics know what they’re
doing, she worried. If the cradles collapse, we’ll suffer troubles that I can’t begin to imagine.
Turning to starboard, she watched the other three Black Ships dutifully soar through the sky
alongside hers. Sometimes they drifted so near that she could identify the acolytes who piloted
them. Satisfied, she again cast her gaze westward. Soon the new cradles came into view.
The cradle spars rose hauntingly up from the earth like the bare rib cages of some monstrous
half-buried beasts. They were stunning things to see. Will they support the great weight of the
ships? she wondered. And who among us would have guessed that the Minions could build such
wondrous things? The warriors surely had some help from the craft, she guessed. It would have
taken more than a smattering of magic to build them so quickly.
As the wind ruffled her hair and robe, Adrian grabbed hold of some nearby rigging to better steady
herself. She felt drained, just as she knew her three acolyte pilots also did. Even so, the trip from
the Cavalon Delta to Tammerland had been short and uneventful.
When Tyranny had finally sent word by Minion messenger that the cradles were ready, Adrian and
the other sisters had been pleased. But when the messenger went on to inform them about the
lost Night Witch group, their happiness vanished. The flight home became a somber rather than a
happy affair.
Nearly an entire Night Witch patrol has been lost to those horrible creatures, Adrian thought as
the wind swirled about her. Twenty-nine brave and talented female warriors—many stripped
naked and impaled. I can imagine no more humiliating death for Minion females.
Two of the Night Witches had been mates of warriors serving aboard the Black Ships, and it had
been all that Adrian could do to keep the grieving husbands from leaving then and there to seek
vengeance. But in the end their Minion sense of duty prevailed and they stayed aboard. Adrian felt
sure that Tristan would have ordered warrior parties to bring home the dead, and that thought had
helped to calm the raging widowers.
Every fiber in my being tells me that we are in for another terrible fight, she thought as the
massive cradles loomed nearer. May the Afterlife see us through it. Little did she know how much
the other Conclave mystics had recently learned, or what added wonders she would soon
witness.
Just then she saw a Minion litter approaching from the west. As it neared she could make out
Tyranny and Tristan sitting in it. She watched Tristan shout out an order as he pointed toward the
Tammerland. Soon the litter landed safely on the flagship’s bow deck, not far from where Adrian
stood. Tristan and Tyranny departed the litter and came to stand by her side. After exchanging
greetings, for the next few moments the three allies simply watched Tammerland draw nearer.
Finally Tristan turned to look at Adrian.
“Was your trip uneventful?” he asked.
Before answering, Adrian noticed that the Jin’Sai seemed unusually anxious. And with good
reason, she thought. Tyranny also seemed particularly vexed. Adrian watched the Conclave
privateer place a cigarillo between her lips and light it. She smiled.
“So you still haven’t given up those things,” she chided Tyranny. “Given that the four cradles are
about to be tested, I can understand why.”
Exhaling the smoke through her nose, Tyranny waved the match out and tossed it over the side.
As if she didn’t know how to answer, she let go a disparaging snort and tousled her hair. “You
don’t know the half of it,” she growled softly.
Tristan gave Adrian a stern look. “Your trip, First Sister?” he demanded.
Adrian pursed her lips. “I’m sorry, Jin’Sai,” she said. “The voyage went well. There is nothing
untoward to report save for my sorrow over the loss of the Night Witches. How is Sigrid?”
“She was injured but she will survive,” Tristan answered. As he let go a sigh, his expression
softened. “I apologize for being short with you,” he answered. “What you have yet to learn is that
seating the ships in their cradles will seem like child’s play compared to what the wizards want to
do next. I understand their plan but I still can’t believe it. The Conclave and the entire Minion camp
eagerly await us. This will be a far more eventful day than you first realized.”
“What do you mean?” Adrian asked.
As Tristan explained the Conclave’s plan to shrink the ships, Adrian’s breath caught in her lungs
and her eyes grew as large as hen’s eggs. Finally she found her voice.
“They actually believe that such a thing can work?” she breathed.
Tristan nodded. “They claim that the theory is sound. But Tyranny and I have our doubts. It seems
that she and I remain the two great skeptics.”
Adrian shook her head in disbelief. “You can add my name to that list,” she said. “What are your
orders?”
Tristan looked out at the looming cradles. It was nearly midday and the shadows created by the
great wooden ribs stretched long across the grassy field. He pointed toward them.
“As the fleet approaches the cradles, you will slow the ships to a crawl,” he said. “Then you and
the other sisters will cause the ships to hover over the empty ground lying east of the four cradles.
Wigg and Faegan will take a litter aloft while the others watch and wait on the ground. They will
then lower the ships one at a time. Jessamay and Aeolus will stand ready to help with the craft
should anything go awry. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Adrian nodded.
“Very well,” Tristan answered. “Then this is where we leave you. Good luck.”
After Tyranny tossed her cigarillo overboard, she managed to give Adrian a wry smile. “If you
wreck my ships I’ll have your hide,” she said quietly. Knowing that Tyranny was only half joking,
Adrian swallowed hard and nodded back.
After saying goodbye, Tristan and Tyranny walked back to their litter. Soon they were aloft and
heading back to the landing site.
Taking a deep breath, Adrian worriedly scrubbed her face with her hands, then called for a
messenger. The female Minion was by her side in an instant. She clicked her boot heels together.
“I live to serve,” she said.
After repeating Tristan’s orders word for word, Adrian gave the warrior a stern look.
“Relay my orders to the other three acolyte pilots,” she said. “Leave nothing out. Should the
acolytes have questions, bring their inquiries to me straightaway. Be sure to follow my orders to
the letter lest you be responsible for the crashing of all four Black Ships.” Adrian turned her gaze
westward once more. “I doubt that the Conclave would look kindly on such a disaster,” she added
sternly.
For a moment the warrior’s face blanched, but she quickly recovered. “All will be as you say,” she
replied.
“Then stop wasting time staring at me,” Adrian said. “Get going.”
The warrior again clicked her boot heels together, took a few quick steps, and launched into the
air. After watching her land on the deck of the Ephyra, the First Sister looked west again. She
hadn’t meant to be so stern with the messenger, but like Tristan and Tyranny, she was nervous.
Soon her earlier thoughts about Wigg and Faegan echoed in her mind, this time with even greater
concern.
I hope those sly old wizards know what they’re doing.

“ARE YOU SURE THIS IS GOING TO WORK?” WIGG ASKED Faegan.
To say that the First Wizard was worried would have been the grossest of understatements. Like
Abbey and Faegan, he was exhausted by the long hours and the mental stress of the last few
days. After boarding the litter, Abbey affectionately touched Wigg on one arm, and Faegan
situated his wheeled chair to his liking. As six stout Minion warriors took the litter aloft, Faegan
cradled the precious jar of subtle matter in his hands. His usually impish demeanor gone for the
moment, he gave Wigg a somber look.
“Will the cradles hold?” Faegan asked. “I don’t know. But they are the least of today’s worries, for
they can be fixed if need be. The truly disconcerting part will come when we try to shrink the
ships.”
Pursing his lips, Faegan looked at the subtle matter trapped in the simple glass jar. “Such
amazing material,” he mused. “I suspect that we have only scratched the surface of its powers.
But without more help from the Ones we will never grasp its true potential.”
“I know,” Wigg answered, “and I find that thought even more worrying.”
Suddenly an old wizard’s adage sprung from Wigg’s memories. His father first spoke it to him
centuries ago, long before Wigg met Failee and she started the destructive rampage that would
become the Sorceresses’ War.
“Worry is much like the payment of a debt before it comes due,” his father said, “neither of which
will do one any good.” For the first time today the First Wizard let go a short smile.
As Wigg looked out over the grassy fields he was again awed by the mountain of wooden crates
lying nearby. The crates were chock-full of supplies, foodstuffs, potable water, and arms. Each
one had been precisely weighed by the Minions and the tally given to the Conclave mystics. The
job had been a massive one. Even so, given the thousands of warriors taking part, the task had
been finished in less than two days.
Then the mystics had painstakingly calculated the amount of subtle matter needed to do the job.
The results were discouraging, for there wasn’t enough of the amazing material to perform all
sixteen transformations. Only a bit more than half of what was needed lay imprisoned in the glass
jar. If the expedition to Shashida was to go forward, the plan had to be changed.
And so a compromise was agreed to. Tristan suggested that they try to miniaturize only the
Tammerland and the Ephyra, leaving the Cavalon and the Illendium in their original states. This
would provide Shailiha with two ships to use as she hunted down the Viper Lord and his servants.
It also meant that only two ships could try to find their way across the Azure Sea to Shashida, but
that couldn’t be helped. Aside from the fact that Tristan would lead the expedition, it had yet to be
determined who among the other Conclave members would accompany him.
The wizards’ plan for the ships was simple on its surface, but it would be amazingly complex in
its execution. If the cradles successfully held the monstrous vessels, the warriors would then load
the Tammerland. The cradles had supposedly been engineered with enough strength to support
the great ships even after the vessels had been loaded to their bursting points. But the mystics
could not be entirely sure about that, nor could they know whether the cargoes would successfully
shrink along with the ships. As the first vessel descended, Aeolus and Jessamay would be
standing by to use the craft should it be needed. Once the Tammerland was loaded, the next part
of the great experiment could start.
Wigg looked east to see the Black Ship fleet approaching. They were wondrous things to see as
their bright red images of the Paragon painted onto their huge black sails shone brightly in the
sun. Wigg was proud of the acolyte pilots; they had learned to fly the Black Ships well. That’s a
good thing, he realized as he watched the ships fly ever nearer. We might soon need the
acolytes’ services as never before.
As the ships reached the landing area, Wigg watched their Minion crews take to the air to furl the
hundreds of red and black sails. The ships then hovered in the air alongside the massive cradles,
their hulls casting huge, looming shadows across the grass. Faegan shouted out an order to the
Minion litter bearers. Soon the litter was also hovering just a few meters away from the
Tammerland’s gunwales.
“Ahoy!” Faegan shouted at Adrian. “Is all well?”
The First Sister left her place in the bow to come and stand at the gunwale. “Yes!” she shouted
back. “You may start!”
Faegan turned toward Wigg. “It’s time,” he said. After Abbey gave Wigg a supportive squeeze on
his arm, the First Wizard went to stand beside Faegan. “I’m ready,” he said simply.
“Slowly release your hold over the ship!” Faegan shouted out to Adrian. “As you do, we will take
control!”
“Very well!” Adrian shouted back. Grateful that her part of the process was done, the First Sister
gradually retracted her power, and the two wizards took up the task.
For a few moments the Tammerland rocked gently as the transfer of power was completed.
Because Wigg and Faegan were both doing the job, the strain on each man was not unduly great.
Faegan looked over at Wigg. “Just as we discussed, First Wizard,” he said. “We’ll take her down
nice and easy.”
As the remaining Conclave members and thousands of Minion warriors looked up in awe, the
amazing process began to unfold. After Faegan carefully handed the jar to Abbey, the two wizards
raised their arms.
Little by little, Wigg and Faegan caused the Tammerland to float sideways to a place directly
above her new cradle. Then the wizards rotated her bow due east, perfectly aligning her keel with
the cradle’s spine. Soon the great ship began drifting downward. While Wigg verbally dismissed
the warriors carrying the litter, he partitioned his power to take personal control over it so that its
descent might more perfectly match that of the Black Ship. Seeing that the process had started,
the thousands of warriors aboard the Tammerland crammed up against the gunwales to watch.
Her hull creaking softly, the Tammerland descended past the tops of the cradle ribs. Seeing that
an adjustment needed to be made, Wigg and Faegan changed the ship’s lean slightly toward
starboard. As she continued to descend, the Tammerland’s keel neared the spine of the cradle.
Wigg took a deep breath. Now we shall see, he thought.
With a great creaking of her timbers the Tammerland settled into her new cradle. At once the
cradle leaned frighteningly toward starboard. Wigg and Faegan immediately brought the ship a
few meters back up, alleviating the stress.
Jessamay, Aeolus, and several thousand warriors ran over toward the cradle’s starboard side. As
the mystics helped with the craft, the warriors quickly pounded more buttress timbers into the
ground and shoved them up against the cradle’s starboard ribs, returning it to the vertical. When
the cradle had been righted, Wigg and Faegan allowed the Tammerland to descend once more.
Soon the ship’s keel was again nearing the curved spine.
With a great groan the Tammerland again settled into her cradle. For a few moments the cradle
ribs and spine creaked loudly in protest as they bore the massive weight for the first time, and the
earth beneath them shuddered. Then all was still.
They did it! Tristan realized as he stared up at the wondrous sight. The huge Black Ship and her
cradle were motionless, awe-inspiring. Soon the Tammerland’s massive stern door lowered and
Adrian made her way to the ground, followed by the several thousand warriors who also served
aboard.
Letting go a deep breath, Faegan looked at Wigg and Abbey and smiled. “It seems that we’ve
done it, old friends!” he said. “Let’s go down and take a look!”
Wigg landed the litter near where the Conclave members were waiting. As they touched down,
the thousands of warriors who had worked so tirelessly on the great project erupted into raucous
cheering, their sudden outburst so deafening that no one could hear himself think. As the ruckus
went on, the three mystics triumphantly exited their litter and were quickly engulfed by the throng.
Soon the joyful warriors saw the Jin’Sai and the other Conclave members approaching, and they
dutifully formed a pathway through their midst.
Running ahead of her brother, Shailiha grabbed Wigg up in a great bear hug and kissed him on
the cheek. As Wigg’s face reddened, Faegan and Abbey chuckled at the First Wizard’s expense.
“Well done!” the princess shouted. Soon Tristan and the other Conclave members joined them.
“I couldn’t have said it better myself,” Tristan said. “Well done indeed.” He looked up to see the
Ephyra, the Illendium, and the Cavalon still hovering in the sky.
“But this is no time to rest on your laurels,” he added with a smile. “There’s still work to be done.”
Tristan turned to look at Traax. “Have your warriors start loading the Tammerland,” he ordered.
“Given how many are available to do the job, it shouldn’t take long.”
Traax clicked his boot heels together and hurried off to carry out his orders.
Faegan turned to look at Wigg. “Shall we go for another ride?” he asked.
Wigg pursed his lips and placed his hands into the opposing sleeves of his gray robe. “And once
we have cradled all three ships?” he asked. “Do you still intend to try to shrink the Tammerland?”
“But of course, my dear fellow!” Faegan exclaimed. The crippled wizard’s mischievous smile
reappeared. “Only he who attempts the ridiculous can ever achieve the impossible! Follow me!”
Without further ado Faegan levitated his chair high over the crowd to soar back to the litter. Wigg
took the jar from Abbey, then wended his way through the crowd to join him. Soon they were
again soaring through the sky to approach the Ephyra.
Two hours later all four ships lay safely nestled in their new cradles. Each time, the process went
more smoothly. Tyranny and Scars came to stand beside Tristan and Shailiha. Now that the
Tammerland had been loaded, the time for the more complex experiment had come. The
Conclave privateer looked more worried than ever. Touching Tristan on one arm, she bade him
walk with her.
“What is it?” he asked, as they left the crowd to stride across the grass.
For a time Tyranny said nothing as she walked beside her Jin’Sai. Then she stopped and
searched his face with a deeply worried expression. As though she didn’t know how to start, she
sighed deeply.
“I know that I don’t own those ships,” she said. “And I will never be able to repay you for all your
kindnesses. But…”
Pausing for a moment, she looked back at the massive vessels that she so loved. For her, seeing
the ships cradled on dry land seemed unnatural, almost a travesty. But her seafaring nature found
what the wizards planned to do next even more blasphemous. She turned back to look into
Tristan’s eyes.
“Those ships are my life,” she said quietly. Then one of her wry smiles appeared, only to vanish
as quickly as it came. “I suppose that my well-known sense of pride would never allow me to say
that to anyone but you. Must we try this thing?”
Tristan nodded. “Although I hold the same misgivings as you, my mind is made up,” he said. “I
know that it’s risky. Whenever I get these feelings, I put my trust in Wigg, Faegan, Aeolus, and
Jessamay. It’s all that we can do. What will be will be. Besides, if the worst happens and the
Tammerland is destroyed, we will still have the other three ships.” He gave her a crafty smile. “I’ll
even make a deal with you,” he added.
“What sort of deal?” she asked skeptically.
“If the Tammerland is wrecked, I will order that another be built,” he said. “You can have a hand in
outlining her specifications.”
“Agreed!” Tyranny answered.
Just then they heard the crowd roar, and they turned to look. An azure glow was settling over the
mastheads and the crow’s nests of the Tammerland. Wigg and Faegan’s litter hovered above the
great ship like a tiny fly badgering some great beast. Then the haunting glow moved lower,
engulfing the entire ship. As Tristan watched, the breath caught in his lungs. It has begun! he
thought.
Their hearts in their throats, the Jin’Sai and the privateer ran back toward the spectacle as fast as
their legs could carry them.

CHAPTER XX
AS KHRISTOS LOOKED AROUND HE REALIZED THAT EVEN his lost love Failee could not
have created such an exquisite place. Silver staff in hand, he turned and ordered his thousands of
hungry servants to wait behind.
Walking on, he crossed the ornate portal that granted him access to the magnificent chamber
waiting beyond. As he entered, he found the room to be every bit as stunning as Gracchus had
told him. Several hours ago, Khristos and his servants had not only entered the Caves of the
Paragon, but with Gracchus’ help had found their way into its lower regions. These were sacred
places that were once known only to a privileged few. Excepting the newly arrived Viper Lord, all
the other mystics who knew of this place had taken their knowledge to their graves.
After killing the Night Witches in Tanglewood, Khristos had used the remaining darkness to herd
his creatures south toward Hartwick Wood. Because he assumed that more of the Jin’Sai’s flying
patrols were searching for him, traveling across open ground during daylight was unacceptable.
But if he could enter the forest before sunup, his forces could hide amid its dense cover as they
continued toward the caves. Pushing his servants hard, he and his vipers reached the forest’s
edge just as dawn arrived.
Gracchus had unexpectedly reached out to touch Khristos’ mind once more, soon after the last of
the female Minions had died. The Pon Q’tar cleric told him much—including how to safely
navigate the labyrinthine caves. Most of what Gracchus told him sounded too fabulous for words.
Even so, Gracchus’ guidance had brought Khristos to this place of places. As his servants hissed
and writhed behind him, Khristos walked deeper into the room.
Like the many chambers and passageways that led him here, this magnificent underground room
had been hewn from living rock. Measuring several hundred meters in both directions, the room’s
walls and floor had been clad with light green marble shot through with streaks of black. It shone
beneath the light of hundreds of enchanted sconces and chandeliers lining the seemingly endless
walls; each light source had been enchanted by its maker to burn forever and without smoke.
Despite the great size of the room, the air was stifling and the temperature was warm, even hot.
But even more amazing were the contents of the room. On the floor, stretching as far as Khristos
could see, lay countless rows of huge, broken eggshells, their thin white sides translucent in the
light. Just as Gracchus had predicted, what remained of the eggs’ contents still glowed brightly
with the color of the craft.
It’s true, Khristos realized. Nicholas’ spell still lives. Taking several more steps, he looked closer
at the shells.
Each of the broken, slimy eggs dripped a thin azure fluid down the outside of its shell. The fluid
seemed fresh—perhaps as fresh as when Nicholas had first conjured these treasures of the craft
three years ago. The stinking fluid from the many eggs had pooled on the floor, adding to the fetid
odor pervading the room.
Singling out one shell for examination, Khristos levitated his body so as not to step into the
stinking fluid. As he glided closer, he became even more impressed by Nicholas’ gifts.
Standing about five feet high and four feet wide, the shell had been pecked open at its top,
showing how the creature that had grown inside it finally emerged to join the world. Conjured by
the thousands, Nicholas’ hatchlings had been instrumental in his attempt to open the Gates of
Dawn and unleash the forces of the Vagaries west of the Tolenka Mountains on Eutracia. But it
was not to be, for Tristan and his Minions had battled Nicholas’ winged servants high in the sky
over Farplain and then issued the final blow later, near the entrance to Shadowood. Khristos
hadn’t the immense knowledge required to create such wonders, nor did he need it. His only
concern was that these masterpieces of the craft still existed, and that they could be used to
further his purposes.
Nicholas had been Tristan’s bastard son, Gracchus had said. A product of one of the Coven
sorceresses’ rape of the Jin’Sai, Nicholas had been one of the most perfect beings ever seen on
this side of the world. Because of the quality of Nicholas’ magnificent blood, the spell used to
conjure these eggs might survive for all time. So too would remain this wondrous chamber and
the secrets that it contained. Secrets, Khristos began to realize, that would spell the final downfall
of the Jin’Sai, his twin sister, and the pompous Conclave.
Khristos levitated a bit higher so that he could peer down into the broken shell’s depths. He
smiled, for what he saw relieved his worried heart.
The bottom of the egg still held some glowing azure fluid. That was welcome, but it was only part
of what he needed. The real prize lay amid the fluid still trapped in the egg’s curved bottom. It was
the red umbilical cord that had nourished the hatchling while it gestated in this egg, only to
become detached and abandoned when the creature broke free to join its brothers.
Khristos did not know how the nurturing process had worked. Perhaps the azure fluid had been
the creatures’ food and it had once nearly filled the eggs. The cords might have been the devices
that supplied the fluid to the growing embryos. But that doesn’t matter now, he realized. What
counts is that they are still here and they remain usable.
He looked down the seemingly endless rows of broken eggs and he smiled. Gracchus was right,
he thought. There are more than enough here to serve my needs. He turned and looked at the
thousands of Blood Vipers who waited behind in a room nearly the size of the one he had just
entered.
“Come, my children!” he shouted. “Come and feast on the wonders of the Vagaries that have
been left behind! Take your strength for the struggle that is to follow!”
As though they were possessed of one mind, the famished creatures slithered into the massive
room to gorge themselves. As they entered, Khristos hovered higher so as to not hamper their
feeding frenzy.
The famished beasts ripped into the eggs with abandon. The fluid ran down their faces and arms
as they chewed savagely on the cords, and Khristos smiled as he realized that his great concern
had been overcome. Before making his pact with Gracchus, Khristos’ only purpose had been to
exact Failee’s revenge. But to his dismay he soon realized that his lost love’s goal would be nearly
impossible to achieve.
Because he had been released from the river, he immediately knew that the sorceresses had lost
the war, making his duty clear. But as Khristos ransacked Eutracian towns, it became evident
that finding and killing enough persons of endowed blood to sustain his throngs of followers would
be nearly impossible. So that their strength would continually grow, Failee had engineered the
Blood Vipers to feed only on the livers of the endowed. After they had fed on enough endowed
victims, even the Jin’Sai’s Conclave would be unable to stop them.
But Khristos soon realized that Failee’s plan was hopelessly flawed. Because not enough
endowed persons could be found, Khristos’s vipers had begun to starve before his eyes. Then he
made his highly unexpected pact with Gracchus and everything changed. Now there was a new
foe to vanquish in Failee’s name. Khristos would do everything in his power to destroy Tristan and
to see that the Vagaries ruled unopposed everywhere east of the Tolenkas, just as Failee had
hoped. It gladdened his heart to know that the First Mistress’s great vision might yet be fulfilled.
Now there is plenty for my servants to eat, bringing the final victory even closer, he realized.
Gracchus is indeed wise. As he watched the creatures gorge, Khristos’ consciousness drifted
back in time to the previous night, when Gracchus had reached out from across the Tolenkas to
again touch his mind.
Sensing Gracchus’ ken, Khristos kneeled reverently in the bloody cobblestone square. Seeing
their master supplicate himself, all the Blood Vipers stopped what they were doing and bowed.
“Khristos,” the Viper Lord heard Gracchus say.
“I am here,” he answered. “Command me.”
“Go to the caves,” Gracchus said. “From your experiences in the Sorceresses’ War you know
where they can be found. What you do not know is that while you lingered in the river, the late son
of the reigning Jin’Sai enlarged the caves, then set them to a particular purpose—one that failed
but can still serve us. Because of the great power of his blood, Nicholas’ spell lives there still. Let
your vipers feed on what nourished his growing hatchlings, for it will provide the same increased
powers as that which you took from the bodies of the endowed. The Jin’Sai will come soon, and
you must be ready for him. He must be stopped from crossing the Azure Sea at all costs. Let
your vipers feed and grow stronger, for soon the greatest struggle of your life will begin.”
“I will obey,” Khristos answered.
As his mind returned to the present, Khristos let go a smile. His vipers could gorge themselves to
their hearts’ content and only increase their strength. As he watched his servants feed, he found
himself eagerly waiting the impending fight.
Come to me, you filthy Vigors worshipper, he thought. Let us finish what was started so long ago.

CHAPTER XXI
THE YOUNG BOY SAT ON THE FLOOR AND SHIVERED. THE usual wooden stool was not
here this time. He briskly rubbed his arms, trying to warm himself as the chilliness seeped
through the damp floor and crept into his bones. He did not realize that the goose bumps forming
on his skin came more from his rising fear than from the cold.
As usual, he had awakened prone upon the floor. And like the times before, he could not
remember who he was or where he would go after his next lesson with the robed ones. Despite
his fear he decided that he didn’t care. He only wanted these sessions to end so that he might
never have to come here again. Had the barren room offered up a way to kill himself, he would
have done so gladly rather than face another unknown horror.
Perhaps they know that, he thought. That is why they took the stool away, thinking that I might use
one of its legs to stab it into my heart and end this madness.
After a time the door creaked open to show the boy’s faceless master. As the door parted, a shaft
of bright light cut through the darkness, hurting his eyes. His vision slowly adjusted, and another
shiver went down his spine. Finally he looked up into the empty confines of the dark cloak hood.
If only my master would show his face, he thought. If his countenance was kind, I might not be so
afraid.
The master extended one hand, then crooked a finger, beckoning the boy to stand.
“Come,” he said simply. Like the times before, his voice sounded hollow but commanding.
The boy stood on shaking legs and walked to the door. The hallway beyond looked the way he
remembered, with its two rows of opposing white doors. The stark corridor held no scent, no
sound, and no life except him and the tall cloaked figure standing by his side. Placing one hand
atop the boy’s shoulder, the faceless master started guiding him down the seemingly endless
hallway.
Soon they stopped before a door. The master pointed at the gold door handle and it levered
downward. As the boy followed the master into the room, he was surprised and saddened by
what he saw.
Like the hallway, the chamber was stark white and without furniture. A man stood naked in the
center of the room, his hands and feet chained to four iron rings embedded in the floor. He looked
to be about forty Seasons of New Life. He was filthy and emaciated, and his body bore many
battle scars. His eyes seethed with hatred as he struggled against his chains.
Looking closer, the boy saw a square beeswax plaque hanging around the man’s neck from a
leather string. The plaque served but one purpose, the boy knew. This man was a recently
captured Shashidan who would soon be sold into slavery in Ellistium’s great forum. When the
final bid was accepted and the gavel came down, the auctioneer would record the price and the
buyer’s name into the plaque with a stylus. Then the slave’s new owner would lead him in chains
to one of the many cashiers’ tables to arrange payment.
Suddenly another thought went through the boy’s mind. As the realization hit home he felt even
colder and more alone.
How can I know such things, he wondered, when I can remember nothing else? I understand
about Shashida, the slave market, and Ellistium, but I cannot even speak my own name.
Before he could find his answers his master spoke again, breaking the boy’s concentration. He
had been on the verge of something, he realized. Even so, he wisely decided to say nothing of his
newfound revelations. The master pointed at the man chained to the floor.
“He is a worthless convict,” the master said. “Worse, he was once an enemy soldier and a magic
practitioner of the worst kind. He cannot speak to you, because after he committed his crime, his
tongue was cut out in punishment.”
Pausing for a moment, the master pointed at the beeswax plaque hanging from the man’s neck.
“He has been marked for sale at auction,” the master said, “but with no tongue he won’t bring
much.” Then the empty hood hauntingly turned toward the boy’s face.
“He killed his slave handler while on the way to the forum, dealing the poor man a gruesome
death,” he added. “It is up to you to determine his fate. There is only one correct decision, and
choosing wisely will be today’s lesson. It is one of the most important that you will ever learn.”
The empty hood turned toward the chained slave once more. “His future rests in your hands,” the
master said. “Over the course of your life you will be forced to make many such choices, and
each must be the right one. There can be no mistakes and no second-guessing, for such errors
will be taken as a sign of weakness by those who would destroy you.”
Before continuing the master placed his hands into opposite robe sleeves. “The usual penalty for
murder is death,” he added sternly. “But one day you will have the power to commute such
sentences and show mercy, should you wish to. So what is it to be? Will you spare him and send
him back to the auction block? Or will you order his demise?”
Before the boy could answer, the master waved an upturned palm. At once a gleaming sword
appeared in his hand. He held it out.
“Take it,” he said. “Make your choice, but first know this: If you wish the slave to die, it must be by
your own hand. Moreover, should you choose to free him, unpleasant consequences could arise.”
With trembling hands the boy took the sword. Despite its heaviness it felt like it belonged in his
grasp. The feeling surprised him.
“What consequences?” the boy asked.
“I will not say,” the master answered. “In life one must suffer the unknown results of his decisions,
whatever they might be. That is how it will be today. Choose.”
As the boy looked at the slave his whole body started to tremble. Why should the decision be
mine? his mind cried out. Who am I to have the power of life and death over others?
The boy lowered his sword. “I will not choose,” he answered. “Nor can you force me to do so.”
He raised his face to again look into the empty, frightening hood. “The choices you offer are worse
than nothing. You say that I must either condemn this helpless man to slavery for the remainder of
his life or kill him here and now…I do not know which fate is worse.”
The master stepped nearer, his imposing presence stabbing even greater trepidation into the
young boy’s heart.
“You will choose,” he ordered. “And you will do so this instant. Indecision can be as deadly as the
blade in your hand. Choose—or you will remain in this place, learning one harsh lesson after the
next until you are an old man and your bones turn to dust. What is it to be—mercy or death?”
The boy looked back at the seething slave. “If I must choose, I choose mercy,” he said. “Free him
and return him to the auction block.”
“Very well,” the master answered. “Be prepared to deal with the consequences of your decision.”
Before the boy could answer, an azure cloud gathered around the faceless master. Two seconds
later the cloud vanished, taking the master with it.
Stunned, the boy quickly turned to look at the slave. As he did, several smaller azure clouds
formed around the slave’s hands and feet. Soon the Shashidan’s manacles vanished, leaving him
free.
To the boy’s astonishment the slave let go a wicked smile and charged straight for him, tendons
knotting and teeth flashing.
This can’t be happening! the boy thought. I just saved him from certain death! Surely he knows
that!
But the time for wondering had passed. There was only one course of action, the boy realized. He
would have to defend his life.
As the slave neared him the boy felt a sudden, unbidden tingling course through his veins. As
though it were second nature he quickly turned on the balls of his feet, then raised his sword high
and brought it around with everything he had, taking the slave’s head off at the shoulders with one
cut. As the blade passed through the slave’s neck, for the briefest of moments the boy thought
that he saw it glow azure. Then the severed head and the body to which it had once belonged
crashed to the white floor, spurting blood as they went. The headless body convulsed and bled for
several moments before finally going still. The killing had taken less than six seconds.
His chest heaving, the boy again lifted the sword and regarded it with wonder as the slave’s still
warm blood ran down it and onto his hands. He watched as the strange azure glow slowly left the
blade.
Has all this been a dream? he wondered.
Dropping the sword, he lifted his hands before his face and stared at them with horror as if they
belonged to someone else—a cattle butcher, perhaps, who cut into flesh as a way of life and was
accustomed to having his hands bathed in blood.
Yes, he thought. He stared back down at the dead slave, marveling over how simple a thing it had
been to kill another human being. I am much like that cattle butcher. But I have now become a
butcher of men…
Just then another azure cloud appeared. Seconds later, the faceless master stepped from its
midst. With a wave of one hand he caused the cloud, the corpse, and the severed head to vanish.
As he turned toward the boy he again placed his hands into opposite sleeve robes.
At first the boy couldn’t find his voice. Finally the words came in a whisper.
“How?” he breathed. Had the boy been able to see his master’s face, he would have found the
approving expression that he had hoped for earlier.
“You possess a rare gift,” the master said. “It is called K’Shari. I granted it to your blood as you lay
asleep on the stone floor. As you grow to manhood you will learn much more about it—how to
harness it, embrace it, and make it your own. But for now that is all you need to know about it.”
For the first time since coming to this bizarre place, enough anger roiled up inside the boy to
finally overcome his fear. He took a threatening step closer to the frustrating mystic.
“You left me alone with that freed slave!” he shouted. “You knew that he would try to kill me, didn’t
you? Yet you vanished, you coward, only to reappear after it was over! Why bother to teach me
these strange lessons if you value my life so little?”
“You are wrong,” the master answered. “Your life is more highly valued than you could possibly
imagine. Despite your youth, because of K’Shari you were never in danger. I vanished because I
wanted you to know that you must not rely on others to save your life. But that is not what we
must discuss.”
“What, then?” the boy demanded.
“Your wrong choice,” the master answered.
“Why was my choice wrong?” the boy protested. He had become so angry that his voice shook.
Good, the master thought. He is starting to assert himself.
“You chose to be merciful toward someone whom you knew to be a dangerous enemy,” the
master answered, “and toward someone who had already killed one of your own kind. Your only
reward for that generosity was to be forced into defending your life. That is all that Shashidans
know—how to hate, take, and destroy. Never forget that. You must always strike first, and strike to
kill.”
The boy calmed a bit. Turning, he looked at the blood on the floor. “Surely there must be some
good in everyone, no matter what they believe or where they come from,” he offered.
“No,” the master answered. “Now, then—tell me what you learned here today.”
Perhaps the master is right after all, the boy thought, as he felt his dread of the faceless mystic
continue to wane. It was kill or be killed. And I’m the one still standing. This time the boy’s answer
came quickly.
“Mercy is a weakness,” he said.
“True,” the master replied, “but that answer is not definite enough—especially coming from
someone so gifted as you.”
Stepping closer, he placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. This time the young man stood his
ground and did not shrink from the mystic’s touch.
“Purify that thought, then take it one step further,” the master ordered. “The words are in your
heart—you have but to say them.”
The boy thought for a moment. As his new response formed, he found that he longer mourned the
slave who tried to take his life.
“Mercy has no purpose whatsoever,” he said softly.
“Not quite,” the master answered. “Sometimes a display of mercy can enhance one’s image,
among other things. Even so, it always comes at a price—one that might be too steep to merit
payment. Should you choose to be merciful, always do so to further your own goals rather than
for mercy’s sake alone. Mercy without a secret purpose is worse than weakness—it will soon rot
away your power over others. You will then become the one needing mercy rather than the one
who grants it.”
The master snapped his fingers and the azure cloud reappeared. Placing one arm around the
boy’s shoulders, he escorted him toward its foggy embrace.
“You still have much to learn, my young charge,” the master said. “But you have taken a great
step forward. You have not only grasped today’s lesson, you have also lost your fear of me. We
will be together for a long time, you and I, and these small victories of yours will serve us well in
the days to come.”
As they stepped into the azure cloud it gathered closely around them and they were gone.

    AS THE ROYAL LITTER JOSTLED ITS WAY THROUGH THE streets of Ellistium,
Persephone looked down at her husband’s face. Holding him close, she removed the crown of
golden laurel leaves from his head and lovingly smoothed his curly blond hair.
Vespasian’s face looked pale and drawn, and he sweated so profusely that his dress uniform was
starting to soak through. Suddenly he let go a quiet moan, causing the empress’s concern to rise
even further.
Not knowing what else to do, she decided to allow the litter to continue on its way home.
Somehow she must find a believable excuse to explain why she and the emperor did not return to
the games. Worried beyond reason, she rocked Vespasian to and fro in her lap much as she
might have cradled the child that she never had.
What can be causing these terrors? she wondered frantically. And how can we possibly hide
another one?
Then she struck on an idea. After making sure that the litter’s curtains were fully drawn, she called
the craft and pointed a finger at Vespasian’s wrist.
A small incision opened in his skin, allowing one drop of his blood to rise into the air. Persephone
used the craft to close the wound, then looked at the evolving blood signature. Soon the familiar
design formed fully. As always, angular lines made up one half, while flowing lines comprised the
other half. Also as usual, hundreds of forestallment branches led away from the signature. Like
the blood signature of every endowed person, Vespasian’s was an amalgam of those inherited
from his father and his mother.
Vespasian had never known his parents, and for that Persephone had always been sorry. The
Pon Q’tar said that they had died in a tragic accident while Vespasian was still an infant. They
went on to explain that when they first became alerted to the nature of his magnificently endowed
blood, for the sake of the nation they had raised him, trained him in the ways of the craft, and
decided that he should one day become emperor. After Gracchus convinced the reigning
Suffragat that Vespasian might well be the one to lead Rustannica to her final victory over
Shashida, the governing body had eagerly voted to one day crown him emperor.
We have much to thank Gracchus for, Persephone realized, even though Vespasian is coming
to distrust him.
As Vespasian lay in her arms, Persephone continued to examine his hovering blood signature and
its many branches. When she saw that it looked normal in every respect, she didn’t know whether
to feel anxious or relieved. His blood holds no answers for us, she thought sadly. With a wave of
her hand she caused the blood signature to vanish.
Just then Vespasian groaned again, and his shallow breathing deepened. Soon he regained
consciousness. Unlike when he awakened from his previous terror, this time he seemed calmer.
As he looked up into Persephone’s eyes she gave him a reassuring smile.
“We are in my litter…” he ventured weakly.
Persephone kissed him on the forehead. “Yes, my love,” she answered. “We travel home now.”
“And the games?” he asked. “Did we manage to leave without my attack being detected by the
others?”
“Yes,” she answered softly. “But we must make some excuse to explain why we did not return.”
Vespasian shook his head. “No,” he said. “I am the emperor and my new campaign has already
been heralded among the populace. The Pon Q’tar, the Tribunes, and the Priory all need me more
than ever. They will simply have to accept our absence.”
Vespasian reached up to gently touch her cheek. “Do you want to hear about my dream?” he
asked.
“Of course, my love,” she answered. “Together we will discover what these dreams mean and
how to put an end to them.”
“Do you remember the Shashidan general I tried to free that day not long ago in the coliseum?” he
asked. “To spite Gracchus, I decided to grant the general mercy.”
“Of course I remember,” she answered.
“My dream has much to do with that day, I fear,” he said. “But I’m not sure why.”
As the emperor told her of his recent terror, tears gathered in Persephone’s eyes and rolled down
her cheeks.

CHAPTER XXII
TRISTAN SAT ON THE BALCONY OF HIS PRIVATE QUARTERS and took another sip of wine.
The day had been tiring and the drink was producing its welcome effect. He would purposely
imbibe a bit too much this night, he decided, and with good reason. Tomorrow might prove the
most momentous day of his life, and he was determined to enjoy this evening.
At the least, the morrow would see his departure from Tammerland—perhaps forever. At the
most, his expedition might reach Shashida. What will happen if we do? he wondered, thoughtfully
rolling the wineglass between his palms. His emotions about the impending journey remained in
conflict, for the prospect of reaching Shashida both thrilled and unnerved him.
He turned to look at the table by his side that was laden with his favorite foods. Roasted quail, loin
of beef with ground horseradish, fresh vegetables, black bread, and Shawna’s famous redberry
cake all sat waiting to be consumed, their wonderfully pungent aromas drifting into the air. He
smiled as he remembered how it had all come to be here.
The ever-industrious Shawna had cooked up a great feast, then insisted in her own inimitable way
that the Conclave members hold a farewell dinner before parting ways in the morning. But to her
dismay, Tristan put his foot down and ruled against it. He knew that Wigg and Abbey would want
to spend this last night quietly, just as he wanted to dine alone with his sister. He might never see
Shai again, and he needed to bid her farewell in private.
Putting down the wineglass, he rose from his chair and wandered into his private bedchamber.
The room was large and magnificently appointed, and as usual his weapons had been casually
tossed atop the great four-poster bed. A marble fireplace stood in one wall, its logs burning
brightly.
He sighed as he looked at the lonely urn that held his late wife’s ashes. It rested atop the mantel
beside her farewell letter. For a time he had considered taking them with him, then he realized
that their rightful place was here, where he and Celeste had spent so many loving hours. As he
sadly realized that he might be leaving them behind forever, he closed his eyes. What would she
think of this mad scheme? he wondered.
For the thousandth time he recalled his late wife’s beauty, her intelligence, her sensitivity. Celeste
had been the love of his life, but now she was gone. She would say that that he must go, he
decided, even if it meant never seeing each other again. After all, that was the risk that Wigg and
Abbey were taking. Were Celeste alive today, could she and Tristan do less?
Placing his thoughts aside, he walked deeper into the bedchamber and toward a large oak table
that stood near the far wall. As he looked at what sat upon it, he again found himself filled with
awe.
Late in the afternoon, Wigg and Faegan had attempted the miniaturization of the Tammerland and
the Ephyra. To Tristan’s amazement, the experiment had been a complete success, right down
to the thousands of crates and sundry items that the Minions had loaded aboard the ships
beforehand. It had been a mesmerizing process to watch, and were the two ships not sitting on
the table before him, Tristan would have never believed such a thing possible.
Each Black Ship now measured just over one meter long from bowsprit to stern and about the
same distance from the keel to the top of the mainmast. Had he not known differently, he would
have thought these ships nothing more than amazingly accurate models. Their sails were furled
and they nestled in their new cradles, which had also been miniaturized. When the process was
finished, Tristan ordered the ships brought to his quarters for safekeeping. Tomorrow morning
they would be crated, and the free space in the crates would be enchanted by Faegan to cushion
the vessels during what would surely be a hazardous journey through the labyrinthine caves.
Bending down, Tristan looked more closely. Each ship still twinkled with the subtle matter that had
accomplished their miraculous transformations. Wigg and Faegan thought that they might stay
that way permanently, and Tristan suspected that the twinkling substance might help camouflage
the vessels when sailing on the Azure Sea. Is this something that the Ones planned for? he
wondered. Unless we reach Shashida, we might never know.
Walking back to the balcony, he again took up his wineglass. The sun was starting to slip down
behind the western horizon. As he watched it disappear, his mind drifted back to the Conclave
meeting that he had called immediately after the miniaturization of the ships.
Because of the many important issues to be settled, the meeting had become a spirited, often
raucous affair. More than once Tristan had been forced to intervene to keep the discussion civil.
The stressful tenor of the meeting had not been because of any personal rancor among the
members, he knew. Rather, it was that they would soon be splitting into two groups, and those in
each group might never see the others again. Because everyone was eager to see Shashida,
trying to decide who would go with Tristan had been a particularly difficult issue to resolve.
In the end it was agreed that Wigg, Tyranny, Scars, Astrid, Phoebe, and Jessamay would
accompany Tristan on the expedition. Faegan, Traax, Aeolus, Abbey, and Adrian would stay
behind to follow Shailiha into battle against the Viper Lord. Also, the Tammerland and the Ephyra
would carry the same two Minion phalanxes that had trained with Tyranny and Adrian during the
recent sea trials. By common agreement it was decided that the Tome, the Scrolls of the
Ancients, and the Paragon would stay behind under Faegan’s care.
Tristan refused to allow personal relationships to play a part in these decisions, demanding that
his group members be selected only for their unique abilities. Wigg was chosen rather than
Faegan largely because of Faegan’s limited mobility. Faegan had been deeply disappointed but
agreed that of the two of them, Wigg should be the one to go.
Tyranny was selected because of all the Conclave members she had the most seagoing
experience, and that could prove vital. As usual, Scars would serve as her first mate. Because
Jessamay commanded the unique ability to determine an endowed’s blood signature lean by
looking into his or her eyes, she too was chosen. The acolytes Astrid and Phoebe would relieve
Wigg and Jessamay in the piloting of the Black Ships. Marissa and another acolyte would remain
behind to pilot the Cavalon and the Illendium under Shailiha’s command.
But the most distressing problem—and the one that would have no resolution until Tristan’s group
entered the Caves of the Paragon—was how to find the subterranean Azure Sea.
Tristan was the only Conclave member who had seen it, and sometimes even he wondered
whether it had been real or some mad dream. Wigg had been with him at the time, but
unconscious. It was on the sandy shores of that strange sea that Tristan and Wigg were scooped
up and flown away by Nicholas’ hatchlings, only to be released by Nicholas after suffering cruelly
at his hands. By that time Tristan had also lost consciousness, ensuring that neither he nor Wigg
knew how far the hatchlings had carried them or how long it had taken. Even if they could find the
sea again and restore the ships to their original size, they would be literally sailing into the
unknown.
Will Shashida really lie on the other side? he wondered. And if so, how long might it take to reach
it?
Just then a soft knock came on the double doors. Tristan walked over and opened them to see
his sister standing there. Morganna stood by her side and Caprice floated lightly overhead.
Tristan smiled and beckoned them into the room. Shailiha looked radiant in a yellow gown,
matching satin slippers, and a golden chain. The medallion lying against her bosom twinkled in
the candlelight. Three-year-old Morganna looked adorable in a red dress fringed with white lace.
As Shailiha escorted Morganna into the room and Caprice obediently followed, the princess put on
a brave smile. Tonight would be difficult for her and Tristan. They had seen the death of their
parents, and each had lost a spouse whom they loved more than life. So far, the journey toward
fulfilling their common destinies had been terribly costly. Without saying so, each understood that
despite how much they had already endured, their struggle was far from over. And tomorrow they
would part, perhaps forever.
“I thought you’d never come,” Tristan said as cheerfully as he could.
Shailiha’s eyes widened as she watched her ever-curious daughter walk toward the Black Ships.
“Don’t touch!” she cautioned.
Morganna stopped and turned, her bright eyes still curious but respectful. “I won’t, Mamma,” she
said. She quickly turned back again to look with that innocent, wide-eyed gaze that it seems only
children can muster.
Tristan was soon reminded of how much Morganna was starting to resemble her late
grandmother. The queen had been a remarkable woman, and she was many years ahead of her
time. It had been she who had convinced the late Directorate of Wizards to break with more than
three hundred years of tradition and again allow the teaching of the craft to females. This teaching
had taken place at a secret castle called Fledgling House nestled at the base of the Tolenka
Mountains. Some of those girls, and a group of specially selected sons of the Redoubt Consuls,
now took their training in a similar school in the Redoubt.
Morganna will soon attend that school, Tristan thought. Then his smile faded as he remembered
that he might never see that day. He looked back at his sister.
“Would you like some wine?” he asked.
Shailiha nodded vigorously. “After hearing the Conclave members bicker for two hours, I could
use some!” she answered. She turned to look at her daughter. “Come, Morganna!” she said.
Shailiha escorted her daughter to the balcony and boosted Morganna into one of the chairs. As
might be expected, Morganna’s eyes went straight for the cake icing. Before Shailiha realized it,
the child had poked three of her fingers into it and shoved them straight into her waiting mouth.
Her satisfied smile said it all.
Tristan laughed as he poured another glass of wine. “She takes after her mother,” he chided. “It
seems that she’s developing your taste for sweets.”
Shailiha wiped Morganna’s mouth, then quickly moved the cake a safe distance from her
daughter’s energetic fingers. “So you noticed, did you?” she asked. After fixing a proper plate and
cutting the food for the child, the princess took her first sip of wine.
For a time Tristan and Shailiha ate Shawna’s delicious food in relative silence, with few sounds to
accompany them aside from the night creatures and Caprice’s delicate wings fluttering overhead.
They dawdled over their food, realizing that the meal provided a welcome reprieve from the
conversation that would follow. But after finishing two slices of cake and several cups of tea, they
both knew that the time had come.
Shailiha looked over to see that Morganna had fallen asleep in her chair. The princess carried her
into Tristan’s bedroom and laid her on the bed. After moving Tristan’s weapons to a nearby sofa,
she again joined her brother on the balcony. As he looked into her eyes he could see tears
welling.
Leaning closer, Shailiha took his hands into hers. “Please be careful,” she said quietly. “I know
that you must do this thing. More than once you have gone away only to return. But tomorrow
might be very different. No one knows where the Azure Sea will take you or what you might have
to face to get there. And we have only recently seen the coded message left by the Ones that tells
us you are doing the right thing. That spell was likely written aeons ago—Wigg said so himself.
What if it is no longer true? What if the Pon Q’tar is out there waiting for you instead? What if—”
Tristan gently placed his fingers against her lips. “There can be no more ‘what ifs,’” he said. “I’m
going and that’s that. Of course I’ll do my best to return. But if I do not, you must be prepared to
rule Eutracia. Value the advice of the remaining Conclave members, but make each decision your
own. They’re not always right, you know.” Smiling again, he wiped away one of her tears.
“Besides,” he added, “as you said, they certainly like to bicker!”
“Yes,” Shailiha added, “especially Wigg and Faegan.”
Tristan reached out to take her medallion into his hand. “Don’t forget this,” he said reassuringly.
“You can see me whenever you want. But remember—do not overuse the spell, and be sure that
the medallion remains in your possession at all times. When Miriam charmed our medallions, she
warned me of these things. Always keep them in mind.”
Tristan let the medallion fall back onto Shailiha’s chest. “Have the Viper Lord and his followers
been sighted?” he asked.
Shailiha shook her head. “Even the Night Witch patrols cannot find them. It’s as if they dropped off
the face of the earth. How can a force that large simply vanish?”
Tristan shook his head. “They might be using the craft to help them hide,” he offered. “But it would
seem that even a wizard as powerful as the Viper Lord would eventually tire and reveal his
position. I admit that it’s puzzling. When you find them, let Faegan help form your plan. But when it
comes to the very real and dirty business of fighting, take your advice from Traax. You can rely on
his judgment completely. In many ways I wish he was coming with me. But because only two
phalanxes sail with my group, he will better serve us here.”
Deciding that the time had come to say goodbye, Tristan smiled at his sister as best he could. “If I
don’t come back—”
“Don’t say that,” she insisted. “I just know that—”
Just then another knock came on the double doors. Wondering who it might be, Tristan rose from
his chair.
“Enter,” he called out softly, trying not to wake Morganna.
The doors parted to reveal Aeolus standing there. Tristan beckoned him inside. After Aeolus paid
his respects to the princess, Tristan bade him sit down. The mystic’s expression was serious.
“Forgive the intrusion, Jin’Sai, but I wanted to speak with you privately before you leave tomorrow,”
he said.
“Is something wrong?” Tristan asked.
Aeolus gave Tristan a weary smile. “Do you mean aside from Eutracia being overrun by beings of
the Vagaries and you and half the Conclave sailing off into the unknown tomorrow?” he asked.
“Truth be told, before you leave I want to talk to you about your gift of K’Shari.”
Suddenly the wizard’s expression darkened a bit. “If this is a private moment, I will gladly return
later,” he added quietly.
Tristan smiled. “Whatever you would say to me you can say in Shai’s presence as well,” he
answered. “There are no secrets between us.”
“Good,” Aeolus answered. He poured a glass of wine and took a discerning sip, then looked into
Tristan’s eyes.
“I wish we had been able to train together longer,” he said. “Even so, I have come to understand
that you are the real master and I the student. Always remember that your K’Shari will be stronger
than mine because your blood is much more powerful. During your travels, should you need to
call on your gift, you must be careful. Do not become overconfident, and take nothing for granted.”
Tristan’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
Before answering, Aeolus set his glass on the table. “The beings you might meet on the other
side are presumably far more advanced than we—especially in the science of the craft,” he said.
“Moreover, the forestallment formula that granted you K’Shari was found in one of the Scrolls.
That means that they had the gift long before we did. If you must fight, always remember that your
opponent might command K’Shari too—and to a higher degree and with greater experience than
you possess. Furthermore, your gift is called forth automatically, while mine is not, and only your
sword glows with the color of the craft. Despite many hours of searching for an answer, Wigg,
Jessamay, and I still cannot explain it. You must trust in your gift, for that is all you can do. Do not
fight the feeling when it comes over you, and let your actions flow through your body naturally.
Only then might you defeat an enemy on the other side with equal talents.”
Tristan appreciated Aeolus’ advice. During the battle to retake the Recluse, fighting techniques
both armed and unarmed had come to him unexpectedly and effortlessly, allowing him to do
wondrous things. And his sword had indeed glowed with the color of the craft.
Later in Crysenium he had fought and defeated Xanthus, his first opponent who also commanded
the gift of K’Shari. The battle had raged like some desperate war between two titans. Whenever
Tristan’s dreggan or Xanthus’ axe missed its target and struck something else, they had utterly
destroyed it. Tristan had never felt such power, and he had to admit that a part of him was eager
to experience it again. But until now he had not considered the dangers that Aeolus was
describing. Like Wigg and Faegan, sometimes Aeolus could make him feel very small.
“You’re right,” he said quietly. “I hadn’t looked at it that way. Thank you.”
“My pleasure,” Aeolus answered. “And now I will take my leave.”
As the mystic stood, Tristan stood with him. “Please watch over my sister while I’m away,” the
prince said. “I’m relying on you two to destroy the Viper Lord and his servants.”
Aeolus gave Tristan reassuring wink. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he answered. After saying
good night to Shailiha he let himself out, the doors closing quietly behind him.
Tristan continued to gaze at the closed doors for several moments, thinking.
“He’s a good man,” he finally said. “Despite what our mystics might say about the quality of your
blood and mine, we’ll never fully appreciate everything they’ve gone through for the sake of the
Vigors. Sometimes I have to force myself to remember that each of them is more than three
centuries old.”
Shailiha looked back at Morganna to see that her daughter was still fast asleep. When she looked
back at her brother, her expression was sad but resigned.
“It’s late and we should go,” she said. “Just promise me that you’ll return.”
Tristan stood, as did his sister. He gave her a short smile.
“Such a promise would be unfair,” he answered. “But I will do my best. In your absence make
sure that Shawna looks after Morganna. You could never find a better nanny, despite how ornery
she can be!”
Shailiha’s laugh sounded brittle and forced—as if she wanted to let go but couldn’t find it within her
to do so. Grabbing the lapels of Tristan’s worn leather vest, she tugged on them and gave him a
ferocious look.
“Just come back,” she ordered. “Don’t force me to come to Shashida and find you!”
The princess went to take Morganna into her arms, the child grumbling softly before settling back
down into a deep sleep. On reaching the doors Shailiha gave her brother a final, lingering look,
then she was gone. Sighing deeply, Tristan sat down again and sipped his wine.
Goodbye, my sister, he thought. May we each find what we’re searching for.
As it happened, he would not sleep that night, but sat on the balcony until dawn, lost in his
thoughts.

CHAPTER XXIII

Given that the Jin’Sai cannot be easily killed, taking the life of the Jin’Saiou will do equally well.
—GRACCHUS JUNIUS
“I HAVE BEEN BID FIVE HUNDRED SESTERCES FOR THIS prime example of Shashidan
pulchritude!” the slave auctioneer shouted. “Who will give me six? Come now—just look at her!
Won’t some fine krithian give me six?”
When no one in the crowd responded, the auctioneer put on his best look of astonishment. It was
a well-practiced deception, and one that had served him well over the years. The slave’s current
owner had told him that six hundred was the least he would accept. The price was relatively high
but not unreasonable for such attractive, untouched goods.
Trying to entice new bidders, the vulgar auctioneer smelled approvingly of the naked woman’s
long dark hair, then pointed lasciviously to her ample breasts. As expected, the crowd drew
nearer. Like hundreds of other slaves waiting to mount the block, she wore an unmarked beeswax
plaque around her neck.
“Only twenty years old and still a virgin!” the auctioneer shouted. “And she has been bathed in
scented oils! That alone is worth one hundred sesterces! Just think of the many skeen children
this one will bear! Why, she’ll easily pay for herself ten times over! Come, now—who will give me
six?”
“Six, then, you robber!” a red-robed krithian man shouted from the back of the crowd. “But I’ll not
give you one sesterce more! And she’d best be as fertile as you say!”
The auctioneer smiled broadly. He had finally reached the minimum bid, and he could soon move
on to hawk his remaining merchandise. He gave the young woman another leering look.
“Fear not!” he shouted back. “In my vast experience, the worst Shashidan slave girl I ever had
was wonderful!” This time the crowd roared with laughter.
As Julia Idaeus passed by she looked up at the humiliated young woman standing on the block,
then stared across the great forum. The huge plaza was busier than usual, partly because it was
auction day. But it was more than that, she realized.
The announcement of Vespasian’s impending campaign had restored the public’s confidence.
With that had come a renewed loosening of their purse strings and a slight surge in tax revenue. It
was not enough to greatly help the treasury, but it was sufficient to convince the Suffragat that the
final day of games should serve as a special celebration of Vespasian’s impending departure, to
build yet more public confidence in final victory. After some discussion, the emperor had given his
blessing.
Seating in the coliseum would be free, first come, first served. For once, krithians and hematites
would intermingle at the games gladly, with no rancor over who could afford the best view. Much
free food and wine would be given away, and an unusually high number of slaves and animals
were to be sacrificed. This would be the greatest single spectacle ever held in the coliseum, and
the excitement was already at a fever pitch. The celebration would occur in two more days, and
hundreds of people were already standing and sleeping in long lines outside the coliseum, hoping
to be among the first to claim a good seat.
As Julia regarded the trembling slave girl, she was glad for the white veil covering her face, for it
kept the mob from noticing her sadness. Deciding not to linger, she held her leather valise closer
and continued on her way down the broad forum. As she passed through the crowd, many of
those not intent on watching the auction bowed reverently to her.
Because of its massive size and great beauty, many Ellistiumites considered the forum to be their
greatest achievement. At one end stood the Aedifficium, and far away at the opposite end could
be found the emperor’s residence. The forum lay in the heart of the city, deep in the oblong valley
created by the seven surrounding hills. Traveling across Ellistium was a long and complicated
affair unless one traversed this bustling place and thereby added to the usual congestion.
Made of pure white marble, the massive rectangular plaza was surrounded by many public
buildings, some of which towered several stories into the air. Among these were baths, a great
library, and offices for such professionals as barristers, moneylenders, and land vendors. Other
areas were devoted to cattle, vegetable, and fish markets. A gleaming colonnaded portico lay at
the forum’s center, complete with covered walkways, eateries, and more shops of every
description. From one end to the other, the forum measured more than half a league. Despite
how often Julia ventured here, each time she revisited this place her sense of majesty was
renewed. As she continued on toward her destination, today proved no exception.
Ellistiumites from all four classes bustled to and fro, giving her the impression that even the
poorest of phrygians couldn’t wait to dispose of their hard-earned sesterces. As usual, everyone
from highborn krithians traveling by personal litter to the lowest skeens being led to the auction
block were present.
Some ladies carried parasols while they strolled about, and robed men eagerly gathered to
discuss the events of the day. A marble tower stood at each corner of the forum, from which
heralds shouted the latest news that few besides Julia knew to be heavily censored by the
Suffragat. Food vendors cajoled with promises that his or her delicacies were the freshest and
the cheapest. Proud horse traders displayed their animals before prospective buyers, magicians
surprised and delighted the crowds, and ever-watchful centurions maintained order. The
atmosphere was festive and carnival-like, and skeens were bought and sold here no differently
than those same horses or the fine gold jewelry that adorned highborn krithian women.
Suddenly a breeze came up, threatening to lift Julia’s veil. Grasping it quickly, she clutched her
leather valise tighter and hurried on. Soon she reached the famous landmark known as the
Columns of the Emperors. It lay at the far end of the forum, just before the elegant entryway into
the royal residence. The two opposing rows of giant columns were made of solid black onyx and
rose to a height of one hundred feet. Each gleaming monolith was capped with a solid gold
capital; atop each capital stood a marble likeness of a past emperor.
Walking among the massive columns always gave Julia a profound sense of history and
sometimes made her feel insignificant, despite her important role as the reigning Femiculi. On
reaching the final column she looked up to see Vespasian’s likeness shining in the midday sun.
Purposely avoiding the guarded entryway to the palace, she turned right and walked on.
Soon she arrived at her destination. The Hall of Antiquity held a special place in the hearts of all
true Rustannicans, from the most highborn krithian to the lowliest phrygian street beggar. Skeens
were denied entry, even when accompanied by their owners. Pausing for a moment, Julia took in
the impressive structure.
The building stood four stories high, each level boasting an ornate recessed archway every forty
feet. Within each archway stood a marble likeness of an important figure from Rustannican
history. People known for their contributions to the military, the arts, and the Vagaries were
represented, along with members of previous royal families. More statues lined the flat rooftop.
One hundred stone steps led the visitor first to a broad landing, then up a narrower stairway to the
huge columned entrance. Manicured cypress trees and thousands of colorful flowers adorned the
grounds on either side. The battle frieze carved into the triangular pediment represented the
famous Rustannican victory at Aegates, a onetime Shashidan city lying far to the south. Julia
started the trek upward, eventually finding herself atop the last landing and among the massive
fluted columns.
After taking a moment to catch her breath, she walked over to the huge sundial standing on the
terrace. She was surprised to see how late it had become; she must not dally. As she smoothly
turned to enter the building, armed centurions guarding the massive oak doors bowed to the
Femiculi.
As she entered the great foyer, imposing works of art and artifacts of Rustannican history came
into view. Despite their great number, they were only a smattering of what lay deeper within.
Striding across the foyer, she stopped for a moment and looked around.
The Hall of Antiquity was both an art museum and a monument dedicated to the glories of the
empire’s war machine. Many of its hundreds of exhibition rooms were filled with Rustannican
paintings, sculptures, and tapestries, some of them aeons old. Other rooms devoted to the
history of the Rustannican military exhibited ancient battle charts, war machines and weapons,
tributes to past leaders, uniforms, and spoils from Shashida. Coming here to learn about
Rustannican culture and the empire’s war machine was a required part of every krithian,
hematite, and phrygian schoolchild’s education. As the children were escorted through the place
by their teachers, the war displays sowed the seeds of a military career—a sentiment that the
Pon Q’tar did nothing to discourage.
From the grand foyer ran seven hallways, each named for one of Ellistium’s seven hills and
leading to a different series of exhibition rooms. Sheathed in gleaming white alabaster and blue
marble, the foyer atrium reached all the way to the roof, where skylights let the afternoon sun
stream in. In the event of rain, shutters could be pulled across the skylights to protect the
priceless exhibits.
The hall was busy today with a high number of visitors and several gaggles of noisy
schoolchildren being escorted by their ever-watchful teachers, their eager voices and quick
footfalls echoing loudly against the marble floor and walls. Without exception, everyone who
crossed Julia’s path stopped to bow and pay heartfelt respects. To keep from being further
delayed, she politely circumvented another approaching group of visitors and made for one of the
gleaming hallways, then quickly climbed another flight of stairs.
Reaching the second floor, she turned and walked up the first hallway on her right and into one of
the many exhibition rooms. She took her usual seat on a marble bench across from a wall
covered with paintings. There were few people about just now, and that suited her purpose.
Opening her leather valise, she withdrew her sketchpad and her colored chalks, then placed the
valise on the floor.
The room she chose was devoted to a group of Rustannican painters known as the Ravennans.
Ravenna was a small town in the south of Rustannica known for its magnificent sunlight and
colorful foliage, especially during the Season of Harvest. The Ravennan painters had been a
tightly knit group, never numbering more than twelve. Painting some two centuries ago, they
displayed an uncanny ability to capture dappled sunlight while showing wholesome themes of
hard work and loyalty to the Rustannican Empire. These patriotic qualities had quickly brought
their work into favor with the ever-watchful Pon Q’tar. Like so many other aspects of Rustannican
culture, all artwork was subject to the approval of the clerics before it could be sold privately or
displayed in public. Conversely, all captured Shashidan artwork was immediately deemed
degenerate and summarily destroyed by whatever legions came across it.
Despite Rustannica’s brutal nature, the Ravennans depicted their warlike nation as
compassionate. Each brushstroke added layer on layer to the great hoax that was Rustannica.
Only Julia and the Pon Q’tar knew the truth about the craft, but the Pon Q’tar had yet to learn that
Julia was aware of it. It was that same dreaded secret that gave her the courage to come here
once each month. Just the same, she lived with the constant fear of being found out, tortured, and
killed.
As she looked at the paintings, Julia saw the same sanitized agenda over and over again, and she
hated the Ravennans for it. These works mirrored the great lie, leading her to understand why the
Pon Q’tar valued them so much. Like a painter who reused a canvas to cover a failed effort, Julia
was painfully aware of the ugly truth that lay beneath the Pon Q’tar’s treachery and deceit.
As she started to sketch the painting before her, her sense of revulsion grew. Her well-known
pastime of sketching was nothing more than an excuse to leave the Priory and come here. She
had chosen this place for her excursions precisely because she hated it so, and she frequented
the Ravennan room because of all the chambers here, she hated this display the most. The
military exhibitions were gruesome, but at least their depictions were honest. But here in the
Ravennan room, surrounded with charming lies made of paint and canvas, Julia was best
reminded of her intense hatred of all things Rustannican and the importance of her mission. For
Julia Idaeus was far more than the reigning Femiculi.
She was a Shashidan spy and a member of the League of Whispers, embedded into the highest
reaches of the Rustannican government.
As she sketched, people wandered by but left her alone. She was known here, and most visitors
respected her privacy. That was another reason why the Hall of Antiquities was the perfect choice
for her assignations. Because this was a public place, even the deeply suspicious Pon Q’tar
would never suspect that something so damaging to their cause might happen within these walls.
Her hatred for this place and all it represented was the perfect fuel for her passionate devotion to
the Vigors cause.
Closing her eyes for a moment, she called the craft.
“I am here,” she said silently.
“We hear you,” the many voices answered in her mind. Their harmonious timbre was reassuring.
“Are you well?” they asked.
“Yes,” she answered. “There is much to tell you.”
“And there is much for us to tell you, child. Is your secret still safe?”
“Yes.”
“Then you may continue.”
For the next quarter hour Julia silently communed with her Vigors masters over vast distances
incomprehensible to the average mind. She told them everything, including Vespasian’s
impending campaign to take the Shashidan mines and its reasons. When she finished she sat
and waited, all the while being sure to glance from time to time at the hated Ravennan landscape
and to continue sketching a copy of it.
For a time her masters did not answer, causing a flood of fear to pour through her. Have I been
detected? she wondered. Are centurions on the way to arrest me? Then she realized that it must
have been the stunning nature of her message that had given her masters pause. When they
finally replied, she was greatly relieved.
“Are you sure of these things?” the voices asked. “Defending the mines against such a major
attack will be a huge undertaking, and you must be absolutely certain.”
“Without question,” she answered. “Vespasian even allowed me to help form the battle plan.”
Again the masters paused for what seemed an unnerving period. “Tell us of the plan,” the voices
finally ordered.
After outlining the campaign, Julia again fell silent, waiting for a response.
“So Vespasian has requested that you go on this quest to perform the auspiciums,” they said.
“That will prove useful.”
“Indeed,” Julia answered.
“Does Gracchus continue to subvert the auspiciums to help perpetuate the great hoax?” the
many voices asked.
“I believe that he does,” the Femiculi answered. “He is still unaware that I know. I have also been
informed that Persephone will accompany Vespasian on the campaign.”
“That is interesting and perhaps useful as well,” the voices said.
“There is more,” Julia continued, fearful that she was pushing the limits of her subterfuge. Since
she had sat down, no Rustannican had tried to speak to her. But it would only be a matter of time
until some fawning citizen wanting to be seen in the company of the Femiculi came over to
address her.
“Vespasian is acting strange,” she told them. “He left the games for no reason two days ago. I
believe that he could be ill, but I do not know what is wrong with him.”
“That is also of great interest,” the voices replied. “But time grows short, so we will discuss it more
during our next communion. While on the campaign it is imperative that you find a safe place in
which to commune with us. Thank you for all that you have told us and for your constant bravery
as you continue to serve us from the belly of the beast. Before we leave you, there is something
important that you must know. If it happens, the results will be earth-shattering.”
“What is it?” she asked.
“The Jin’Sai and some of his Conclave are about to try to cross the Azure Sea,” the Ones
answered. “They have seen subtle matter for the first time, and they also discovered the
message that we left hidden in the Tome and the Scrolls so long ago. Tristan is the first Jin’Sai to
do so. If he reaches Shashida alive, our world will change forever.”
Julia began to tremble, her shaking hands suddenly drawing unruly lines. It was all she could do to
keep from erupting in joy. Finally allowing her tired fingers to rest, she took a deep breath and
calmed herself.
“It is time for us to sever our link lest our communion be discovered,” the Ones said. “Stay safe,
Julia Idaeus, and remain brave in the face of the many changes that will soon come.”
Even before she could say goodbye, Julia felt the bond between her mind and theirs dissolving,
then it was gone. She felt tired but elated. Gathering up her valise, she put away her drawing
things and turned to leave the Ravennan chamber. As she walked across the hated room, several
Ellistium toadies bowed and scraped to her and attempted to engage her in small talk. But she did
not mind, nor did she need to hurry, for hope was finally at hand.
As the Femiculi finally left the Hall of Antiquity to navigate her way back through the busy forum,
from behind the protection of her veil she smiled.

CHAPTER XXIV
“IS THERE ANY SIGN OF THE CONCLAVE?” KHRISTOS asked. He gave his lead Blood Viper a
stern look. “I must be notified the moment the Jin’Sai’s party is detected.”
The creature hissed and shook his head. “No, my lord,” he answered. “Rest assured that when
they arrive, we will be ready to strike. As you have ordered, some of us wait in hiding near the
cave entrance. When they approach, we will enter the Caves ahead of them and inform you.”
“Very well,” Khristos answered. “Be sure to report to me the moment they are seen. But do not
engage them or otherwise alert them to your presence. Let them enter the Caves peacefully. Only
then will we take our revenge.”
“Understood, my lord,” the Blood Viper answered. The creature bowed respectfully, then slithered
away with several others of his kind to go about its duties.
As he watched his servants go, Khristos smiled. Before committing the viper embryos to the
peaceful river in Hartwick Wood, Failee had enchanted a handful of them with the power of
speech. These specially gifted ten would one day serve as Khristos’ captains, she had told him.
Because of the Blood Vipers’ extremely violent and nearly uncontrollable natures, Failee feared
that allowing all of them to converse with one another might lead to discord, perhaps even
rebellion.
Some of these specially gifted ones served as Khristos’ eyes and ears above ground, while the
others helped to convey his orders to the multitudes. Those that could talk did so in a hesitant,
guttural fashion, reflecting the violent nature of their dark personalities. Despite the vipers’ rather
inhuman way of speaking, Khristos smiled as he remembered the late First Mistress’s brilliance.
The Blood Vipers were among her precursors to the Minions of Day and Night, Gracchus had
said.
How ironic, he thought. The first of Failee’s many attempts to develop the Minions are about to
battle the final products. The results should prove interesting.
On entering the caves, Khristos unerringly followed Gracchus’ directions and led his servants to
the chamber where they could feast on Nicholas’ glowing eggs. With each egg that they
consumed he watched them grow stronger and more willing to kill and die, if need be, in the late
First Mistress’s name.
Then Gracchus had again communed with Khristos, ordering him to travel deeper yet into the
Caves. Again following the lead cleric’s directions, the Viper Lord led his monsters to the shores
of the Azure Sea. From there, supply lines had been established so that more eggs could be
delivered to the waiting vipers to feed on and build their strength.
Before communing with Gracchus, Khristos considered ambushing the Jin’Sai above ground near
the entrance to the Caves. But Gracchus had commanded Khristos to let Tristan enter
unharmed, bringing his Black Ships and all of his warriors with him. The process would be
time-consuming but worth the wait, the Pon Q’tar cleric said.
Only after making sure that the enemy had traveled too far into the bowels of the earth to order an
effective retreat would Khristos finally spring his trap and slaughter them all. His superior numbers
would savagely overwhelm the Vigors worshippers and the winged beasts they commanded.
Then he would enjoy watching Tristan’s precious Black Ships burn.
When the Jin’Sai and all of his followers were dead, Khristos would take the fight aboveground
again and redirect his rage against the Jin’Saiou and those remaining Conclave members and
Minion warriors who followed her. With Tristan, his Minions, and half of the Conclave killed,
Khristos’ victory in this last struggle would be far more assured.
He would then go on to ransack Tammerland, destroy the royal palace, and tear the Redoubt of
the Directorate apart from stem to stern. Moreover, he would burn the Tome and the Vigors Scroll
to ashes, ensuring that no endowed person could use them against him. Then his next mission
could begin as he and his vipers went on to murder every endowed man, woman, and child of
right-leaning blood he could find. Vigors blood in Eutracia would exist no more.
After completing his scorched-earth campaign, he would then take his servants to Parthalon in
the Jin’Saiou’s two Black Ships. He did not know how to sail them through the air, but that did not
distress him. He could easily round up any number of Eutracian sailors living along the coastline,
just as he had done with the citizens of Birmingham and Tanglewood. He would use the craft to
bend the sailors to his will and force them to take him across the ocean in the traditional way.
Once he reached Parthalon, the entire country would fall prey to him and his Blood Vipers. He
would then stand astride both nations like a colossus and enjoy the just rewards of dictatorship
that Gracchus had promised to him.
Hearing the sounds of the ocean, Khristos turned. While he and his grisly servants eagerly
awaited news of the Jin’Sai’s arrival, Khristos took in the amazing sight.
The cavern in which he stood was huge—so mammoth, in fact that he could not see its limits. A
great subterranean ocean lay before him, its blue waves stretching away from the rocky shore.
Hundred of meters above him, a ceiling of rock lay where the sky would normally have been. The
millions of radiance stones ensconced within it lit this place brightly with a sage-green hue,
stretching as far as his eyes could see. Even the ocean itself, wide and foam-crested, seemed
endless.
The smell of the cool breeze blowing in off the waves reminded him of the coast of Eutracia. The
froth-tipped waves were the exact hue produced by the craft. They rushed toward him over and
over again, crashing noisily upon the sandy shore some fifty meters from his feet. Behind him lay
a long, jagged stone wall, reaching from the sand to the top of the cavern. Hundreds of cave
openings pierced the wall, their dark holes often lying many meters above the sand. With
Gracchus’ help, Khristos knew that each one stretched for leagues into the living rock. Within
those caves his thousands of servants lay coiled and ready to strike at a moment’s notice.
This is where the Jin’Sai will finally meet his death, Khristos thought as he watched the waves
constantly assault the sandy beach. Before that can happen, he and his mystics must again find
this place, but even that has been skillfully arranged.
Leaving the beach, he trod the sand back to where one of the dark cave entrances stood. From
just within its depths he would be able to clearly see the Jin’Sai and his forces arrive, for there
would be but one entrance available to them—the one that Gracchus and Khristos wanted them
to use. Only then would he order the attack.
As he waited among his eager servants, his mind slowly drifted back to the violent era known as
the Sorceresses’ War. Failee was losing her struggle for dominance over the craft, but much
more blood would be spilled and far more combatants killed before she would finally be defeated.
The three Mistresses of the Coven and their forces had gathered deep in Hartwick Wood, hoping
to entice the Vigors forces into a trap and annihilate them. It had also been the time of Khristos’
great love for Failee and of her secret plan to commend him and the viper embryos to the
peaceful-looking river…

“WHAT TROUBLES YOU, MY LOVE?” KHRISTOS ASKED.
Turning over, he looked deeply into Failee’s eyes. Sorceress’s eyes, he thought as he became
lost in their luster for the thousandth time. Her hazel orbs sometimes seemed to glow, and they
were but one of the mysterious qualities that drew him to her. She had coupled with him even
more frantically this night, like a desperate woman who feared she was lying with her mate for the
last time. For him it had been glorious, overpowering, mesmerizing. But as he waited for a
response and got none, he worried.
When he had first approached her and offered his services as an accomplished Vagaries wizard,
the First Mistress had reacted with aloofness. It seemed that she regarded him as little more than
yet another among the many hundreds of wizards who wished to follow her cause and to see the
Directorate destroyed. Later, as his wartime exploits and notoriety blossomed, she took an
increasing interest in him. A mutual attraction soon developed, finally enticing them to share a
bed.
But as his love for her grew, other than their frenzied physical couplings he could sense no
emotional need in her for him. All that he ever saw within those wondrous eyes was her
obsession to win this terrible struggle that she had started. Like her prosecution of the war, she
approached her frantic lovemaking as if it too were some battle that must be won. She controlled
every aspect of her terrible war with methodical savagery, and her carnal need for Khristos was
no different.
The magnificent First Mistress, he thought as he searched her beautiful face. He continued trying
to guess her thoughts even though he knew it was impossible. She is also the estranged wife of
Wigg, Lead Wizard of the Directorate. What a strange path this war has woven for us. Only the
Afterlife knows how it will all end. If I ever see Wigg again, how might such a bizarre scene play
out?
Saying nothing, Failee rose from the luxurious bed and walked naked to the other side of her war
tent. As she went, he watched her graceful curves glint in the candlelight. Long dark hair streaked
with silver hung far down her back, swishing gently to and fro and brushing her perfect skin.
There was no other sorceress on earth like her and there would never be again, his heart told
him. Whatever she asked of him he would do. Not simply because Failee was his lover, but also
because he had never known so strong and infallible a leader as she. Her talents in the craft were
legendary, her ruthlessness on the battlefield uncompromising.
Sitting down at her dressing table, the naked First Mistress looked into the mirror, then took up a
tortoiseshell brush and began pulling it through her lustrous hair. When she went silent like this,
there was no use trying to prod her, Khristos knew. Like everything else in her life, conversing
was strictly on her terms.
As he waited, Khristos sat up in bed and he looked around. Despite how many times he had
visited the First Mistress’s war tent, it never ceased to amaze him. Had he not known better, he
might have thought himself to be in the private bedchamber of some queen’s castle rather than
amid a huge military camp deep in Hartwick Wood. As usual, wherever the Mistresses of the
Coven ventured, every conceivable luxury had been provided for.
The tent was very large, its four long sides and pointed ceiling sturdily supported by gleaming
golden poles rather than the customary wooden posts. The dense canvas was dyed dark green to
match the forest that surrounded it. Ornately carved furniture and patterned rugs adorned the
area, while dozens of candles and oil lamps gave off soft, reassuring light. One table held war
charts, texts, and scrolls relating to the craft. Scented oils wafted on the evening air while outside
the tent, the familiar sounds of soldiers at arms, neighing horses, and other camp activity
sounded into the night.
Two handmaiden mystics armed with swords and daggers stood motionless near the tent
entrance, ready to execute any order given them by their First Mistress. As so many times before,
tonight they silently watched as Failee and Khristos performed their grasping brand of lovemaking.
At first Khristos had found their cool gazes unnerving, but because of his carnal need for Failee,
he soon adjusted. For a time he had wondered whether the women were there to protect their
mistress should Khristos ever threaten her. Then he had laughed aloud when he realized that
Failee would need no help to kill him should she wish him dead. It was widely rumored throughout
Failee’s massive war machine that she could kill with a single thought, as could Succiu, Vona,
and Zabarra, the other three lesser but equally devoted Mistresses of the Coven.
As Khristos looked into Failee’s mirror, his face reflected back to him alongside hers. The image
was serene, like some idyllic portrait of a contented husband and wife lovingly set upon a fireplace
mantel. But this image was false, for she bore no love for him. Nor was there any contentment in
her, for her war had yet to be won.
Taking a deep breath, Khristos continued to gaze at his reflection. At forty Seasons of New Life he
was already an accomplished wizard with few equals. Curly black hair adorned his head, and he
was handsome and strong. He had taken many lovers over the course of his life, but none had
compared to Failee. As her eyes finally met his, he looked at her with concern.
“You haven’t answered me,” he said softly. “What troubles you so?”
Faille put down her hairbrush as she continued to stare into his eyes from the depths of the
mirror. Her answer would surprise him.
“Do you love me?” she asked simply, her usually commanding voice perhaps granting him a bit
more compassion than usual.
Sensing that something had changed in her, Khristos sat up in the great bed. “You know that I do,”
he answered, “even though you cannot return my love.”
“Then why do you stay with me?” she asked.
“Perhaps it is in the hope that your feelings will one day change,” he answered honestly. “Call me
a fool if you will. But the heart wants what the heart wants.”
Failee rose from her dressing table and walked back to the bed. Sitting down beside him, she
looked at him in that way only she could. No one in the world had ever made him feel so brave yet
so timid, so important yet so small.
“If you really love me you will listen to what I have to say,” she said quietly. “What I tell you now is
for your ears alone. Even Vona, Zabarra, and Succiu have not been informed.” Leaning closer, her
hazel eyes bored their way even deeper into his. “Be sure that you wish to hear this, Khristos,”
she added. “If I learn that you have betrayed my trust, I will kill you without reservation.”
Khristos took a sharp breath. She had always been stern with him and he had never objected to
her dominance—on or off the battlefield. Even so, until now she had never threatened his life.
After some careful consideration he finally decided.
“What is it?” he asked.
As though some sudden shame had poured over her, Failee turned her face away. Now it will
come, he thought.
“We are losing this war,” she said softly.
Her words struck Khristos like a thunderbolt, the simple statement earthshaking. Had it come
from anyone else he would not have believed it. Even when uttered by the First Mistress it was a
difficult concept to fathom.
No one in their mighty army had the confidence of Failee. Not even the other three Coven
mistresses were so sure of victory, and Khristos knew them well. Moreover, her forces had just
scored a significant victory over part of the Vigors army near the plain called Heart Square, south
of the capital. Soon after, her war scouts reported that the wizards had fled the battle to seek
refuge in Tammerland.
Sensing that her great chance had finally come, Failee chased after them and laid siege to the
capital. As her forces hammered at the outskirts of the city, Tammerland became a fortress and
her people began to riot and starve. Rumors soon spread that many were demanding the
wizards’ surrender. Anything, they said, was better than watching their children starve before their
eyes. With the wizards cornered and losing control, it seemed that Eutracia would finally belong to
the Coven.
But then something unsuspected happened. It was learned by her scouts that the wizards’
“retreat” to Tammerland had been a ruse. They and the bulk of their forces had circumvented
Hartwick Wood to the west, then traveled northeast toward Tanglewood to regroup. Failee
immediately understood that her army must meet the wizards’ forces soon, while they were still
reeling from their defeat at Heart Square. Because the Vigors mystics were not in Tammerland,
the city had no more strategic significance than did any other, and so she abandoned her siege.
Because she dared not risk an all-out assault in which her forces could be seen advancing for
miles, she devised a plan to draw the Directorate’s army into the forests of Hartwick Wood. The
dense forests lay not far from where the wizard army was camped, making the temptation even
greater.
Khristos had never known how Failee planned to encircle and destroy the wizards’ forces once
they entered the forest, but he did know that these woods were rife with magic—magic that
perhaps only Failee and the other Coven members understood and could use. This was perhaps
why the wily wizards had not taken the bait, or perhaps they simply did not wish to abandon a
position from which they could see enemy forces advancing from leagues away. But for whatever
reason, they did not come. And so Failee’s chance to trap and annihilate the Vigors worshippers,
first in Tammerland and then in Hartwick Wood, never materialized. Even so, Khristos had never
dreamed that those missed opportunities might somehow signal that the war was lost.
“What makes you say this?” he asked, still unable to believe. “Although the wizards refused to
follow us into Hartwick Wood, we stunned them at Heart Square and inflicted many casualties on
their ranks. They’re reeling, Failee, surely you see that! I say that now is the time to move our
forces to Tanglewood and strike them with everything we have!”
She turned to look at him angrily. “Don’t you think I know that?” she growled. “A fool could see it!
Under normal circumstances victory could still be ours. All I would need to do is to reach out and
take it! But these are far from normal times, Khristos! My spies tell me that something has
happened that will irrevocably alter the outcome of this war. I fear that this news will forever
change the science of the craft. Unless I am wrong, victory has become impossible. But I will
continue this fight nonetheless. It is what I was born to do, despite the massive advantage the
wizards have obtained.”
“What advantage?” Khristos asked. “What could possibly have happened that might cause us to
lose this struggle?”
To his surprise, Failee balled her hands into fists, and her body started shaking. She lowered her
head, and her hair fell to cover her face. Even during her darkest moments he had never seen her
so overcome. It wasn’t some new fear that consumed her, he realized. She was far too brave for
that. Rather, he sensed that it was some strange combination of immense dread and frustration
that had so quickly engulfed her. He tried to put his arm around her, but she roughly shoved him
away. Closing her eyes, she angrily swept her long hair back with one hand.
“The wizards have found a great book,” she said softly. “And with it was a blood-red stone, bathed
in vibrant red water. It is rumored that these two seemingly innocuous items will forever change
our knowledge of the craft. The book and the stone will make the wizards powerful,
Khristos—more powerful than we can ever become unless we also gain the knowledge and
power that these artifacts are said to provide. Even so, we have no choice but to fight on. But if
the book and the stone are as important as my spies say, the wizards might already possess
advantages over us that we can never surmount. It is said that the book is called the Tome, and
the stone is called the Paragon. They were left behind by our long-lost ancestors for us to use and
learn from. But the wizards found them first, and I can see no way to take the Tome and the
Paragon from them. Had we discovered the book and the stone first, our war might already be
won.”
“Where were these artifacts found?” Khristos asked gently.
To his great surprise, Failee suddenly threw her head back and laughed. It was a strange,
desperate cackle, lacking the slightest trace of humor. When she stopped, he noticed that she
was no longer shaking and her domineering nature had returned. Rising from the bed, she began
pacing the tent like a caged lioness.
“That’s the truly maddening part!” she exclaimed. “My spies tell me that the artifacts were found in
a deep cave not more than three leagues from where we are now camped! Three leagues! That’s
all that stood between us and total victory! Supposedly the cave entrance was covered with rocks
and vegetation, making it difficult to see. I cannot be sure when the caves were found.” Just then
her face took on a familiar expression of disgust. “But I do know who first discovered them and
secretly removed the sacred artifacts.”
From the look on Failee’s face, Khristos immediately knew the answer. “Wigg,” he breathed.
“Yes,” Failee answered quietly. “The wizard Wigg—my traitorous husband, and the Vagaries’
greatest enemy.”
“What are your plans?” Khristos asked.
“I will continue this war as best I can,” she answered. “Despite this setback we have come too far
to turn tail now. But to finish my plan I will need your help. Will you help me, Khristos?”
“Of course,” he answered. “What do you wish me to do?”
“Get dressed,” she said. “We are about to travel through the woods to a special place. Once we
have arrived I will explain how you can aid the cause like no other wizard at my command.”
Failee and Khristos dressed quickly under the ever-watchful gaze of the two women guarding the
tent door. When they were ready, she led him from the tent and toward a wagon to which a pair of
horses were harnessed. A dark canvas covered the wagon bed.
As they walked through the massive camp, the three magenta moons shone their light down
through the trees, giving the bustling place a surreal appearance. Because Failee had ordered
that no fires be lit this night, the camp stretched darkly for leagues into the dense forest. Hundreds
of wizards, sorceresses, and Blood Stalkers walked to and fro, going about their business.
Thousands of mindless but otherwise healthy male citizens who had been captured and
magically turned to Failee’s purpose as battle fodder could be seen everywhere, and screaming
shot into the night as Failee’s wizards transformed captured Vigors mystics into yet more drooling
Blood Stalkers. The morale of her many mystics remained high, and they were clearly eager for
another chance to meet the Vigors wizards and end this war.
Khristos smiled wryly as he wondered how the mood of Failee’s many followers might change if
they heard the strange news about the two recently found artifacts. Knowing better than to speak
of it, he climbed aboard the wagon and sat beside Failee.
Khristos watched as Succiu, Second Mistress of the Coven, approached. Dressed all in black
leather, she gave Failee and Khristos a curious look. The bullwhip hanging at her left hip and her
black knee boots glinted in the light of the three red moons, as did her silken straight black hair. As
Succiu neared the wagon, her exotic almond-shaped eyes searched Failee’s face. Of the other
three sorceresses, Succiu was the most rebellious, never missing a chance to question the First
Mistress’s authority. Reaching out, she brazenly grasped the horse’s bridle and looked into
Failee’s eyes.
“Where are you two going at this hour of the night?” she asked. One corner of her lovely mouth
came up. “Surely it’s far too late for a picnic,” she added. Knowing better than to interfere,
Khristos remained silent.
Failee gave the Second Mistress a hard look. Khristos knew that Failee respected Succiu’s
talents in the craft, for among all four sorceresses they were second only to her own. But Succiu
could be difficult and her personal predilections bizarre. He knew that this was the time for Failee
to control her protégée rather than obey her request and honestly answer Succiu’s pointed
question.
“You have no need to know,” Failee answered. “But perhaps I will tell you after we have returned.
Now unhand the horse.”
Succiu smiled. “As you wish, First Mistress,” she answered. “But when you return, I and my fellow
sisters will want answers.”
Reaching down, Succiu uncoiled the whip lying at her hip and expertly snapped it out across the
dewy grass. Then she raised it high and brought it down sideways, directly across the haunches
of both horses.
As Failee’s anger built, she quickly employed the craft to control the rearing horses and settle
them down. Deciding to deal with the Second Mistress’s insult later, she charged the wagon from
the clearing.
Failee and Khristos rode the rumbling wagon for two hours without speaking. After Succiu’s
brazen actions, he knew better than to try to strike up a conversation. Besides, he had been told
that everything he needed to know would be explained to him when they reached their destination.
So he sat quietly beside Failee, trying to imagine what part he might play in her great scheme.
Finally they approached a babbling brook and Failee pulled the horses to a stop. She climbed
down from the wagon, and Khristos followed suit.
Khristos found the place unremarkable. The brook emptied into a deep pool about ten meters
away, and one of its banks was a high hill covered with dense foliage. As the innocuous stream
burbled along, the trees lining the bank swayed in the wind and the moonlight gently caressed the
water, grass, and foliage.
Khristos turned back toward Failee to see that a strange expression had come over her face. He
was about to speak when she quickly raised her arms.
The twin azure bolts that streamed from Failee’s hands were among the brightest he had ever
seen, and they gave him no time to react. As they hit him, he was caught up in a wizard’s warp
and lifted high into the air. The gleaming light that surrounded him held him tightly in its powerful
embrace, allowing him only the ability to move his head and blink his eyes. He tried to cry out, but
words wouldn’t come. He tried to call the craft and break her spell, but her gifts were too powerful.
As he hung imprisoned in the glistening azure light, he saw that Failee’s face had become
menacing.
“I have a mission for you, Khristos,” she said, as she continued to empower the strange spell.
Lowering her hands, she stepped closer and examined him approvingly, much as she might
regard some fine object of art.
“It is of the utmost importance to me and it will require much sacrifice on your part,” she said.
“Because of that, I have taken away your power to resist me. You see, you have no choice in the
matter. But once you hear me out you will better understand my motives. You might even agree
with them.
“As I confided to you in my tent, I might soon lose this war,” she continued. “I have no real way of
taking the newly found artifacts from the wizards, save for defeating them outright. And if they are
already on the path to becoming more powerful, that seems unlikely. If my sisters and I are
defeated, I want the wizards and all other persons of right-leaning blood to suffer mightily for
daring to oppose the Vagaries. That is why I have brought you here, Khristos. Should the war be
lost, you and thousands of creatures who shall become your servants will wreak my revenge.”
Returning to the wagon, Failee again raised her arms. The canvas flew away to reveal numerous
earthen vessels. She used the craft to lift them gently into the air and deposit them one by one on
the riverbank. A shudder went through Khristos as he tried to imagine what they might hold.
Turning, the First Mistress again faced him as he hovered helplessly in the night.
“We shared some tender moments, you and I,” she said. “But now they are finished. You must be
wondering why I chose you for this, rather than some other wizard or sorceress. The answer is
simple. You have come to love me, Khristos, and too much, I’m afraid. That makes you the logical
choice. From the moment I first learned of the Tome and the Paragon, you became no more to
me than a means to an end.”
Fearing for his life, Khristos again tried to scream. But as before, his voice was gone. All he could
do was stare in horror at the determined First Mistress as she stood there in the moonlight. Then
she detailed her plan for him.
If it became clear that the war was irrevocably lost, she would return to this brook and commit
suicide, releasing her blood into the water, Failee said. That would activate the final part of the
spell and release Khristos so that he could start his grisly mission. Khristos would rise from the
water a new being. His existence would have but one goal, as would the lives of the evolving
creatures that would serve him. As he listened he silently begged her to stop, to change her mind,
to abandon this madness. But she did not. When she finished her tirade she turned and walked
back to stand near the many earthenware jugs.
Failee levitated the first of the vessels into the air and caused it to float to a place directly over the
deep pool. Suddenly the plug flew out and landed on the dewy bank. Then the jug tilted toward one
side, emptying its haunting contents into the water.
The bright azure fluid coming from the jug was slimy and slick-looking. Holding thousands of
Blood Viper embryos, it caused the pool to churn and glow. One by one Failee did the same with
the remaining jugs. After returning each jug to the wagon bed and again covering them with the
canvas, she turned to look at Khristos. For the briefest of moments he thought he saw hint of
sadness cross her face. Lowering her hands, she walked down the riverbank to where he hung in
her carefully crafted warp.
“Goodbye, Khristos,” she said quietly. “We shall never meet again.”
At once Khristos floated out over the pool. Again he desperately tried to break the sorceress’s
spell, but it was no use. As he entered the cold brook water there was nothing he could do but
succumb to Failee’s trickery. Little by little the water rose until it covered his chin, his nose, his
vision. His last view of the world was of Failee’s cold, beautiful eyes staring at him.
As Khristos submerged, the brook again churned and glowed with the color of the craft. Then the
water settled down, showing no trace of what had happened. After staring at the brook for a time,
Failee turned and mounted the wagon. Clucking to the horses, she started back to her war camp.
In the end, Failee’s war would take her far afield, never giving her the chance to return to this
brook or to send an emissary of left-leaning blood to do her bidding. Little did she know that her
spell would intern Khristos and the vipers for centuries, only to be activated by a common hunter
whose endowed blood meant nothing to her. Nor could she have known that when Khristos and
his servants were finally liberated, Gracchus and the Pon Q’tar would intervene and set the Viper
Lord on a parallel but different course.
As the centuries passed and the spell held its sway, the newly minted Viper Lord came to
understand Failee’s need for revenge, and his heart softened against her treachery. He still loved
her, he realized, and he always would—despite how she had used him.
So much for what my life might have been, Khristos mused as his mind returned to the moment
at hand. There had been no report of the Jin’Sai, but he knew that it would soon come. And so I
again wait in darkness with my many servants, he mused. But this time my prey is far more
important. Come to me, Jin’Sai, he thought as the azure waves pounded against the shore.
Come to me and meet your fate.

CHAPTER XXV
“THE NATION WILL BE DIFFICULT TO CONTROL IF I AM not victorious,” Vespasian said
sternly. Taking a deep breath, he looked Tribune Flavius Maximus squarely in the face.
“You must understand that,” the emperor added. “In the end there may be little glory in this task
that I offer you. Should we fail to secure the Shashidan mines, the depleted state of the treasury
might well give rise to a revolt. Only two legions will remain here in Ellistium with which to enforce
martial law. Moreover, all the Pon Q’tar and Heretic ranks go with me, for I will need them in the
field. That leaves only you and a handful of other tribunes who can employ the craft. I do not envy
you this job.”
Turning away, Vespasian resolutely folded his arms across the breastplate of his dark blue dress
armor and looked around the room. He would be leaving the palace soon, perhaps never to return.
He would miss it.
Vespasian stood in his private office. Broad and spacious, the room was magnificently decorated.
Massive oak doors lay in the far wall, closed for the moment and guarded by two centurions on
the other side to ensure privacy. The floor was made of highly polished onyx and alabaster
checkerboard squares, and in its center was inlaid the letter V in solid gold. The walls were tall,
with fluted pilasters between the many colorful frescoes. A wide skylight let in air and sunlight.
Vespasian’s elaborately carved desk stood nearby, its top littered with parchments, beeswax
plaques, styli, and abaci.
Vespasian turned and walked out onto his balcony, thinking. His legions and armada were ready
and the momentous day had finally arrived. The forum lay before him, its beautiful columns and
majestic buildings glistening in the midday sun.
Looking down at the impatiently waiting throng, it seemed to him that every single Ellistiumite had
come to this spot to cheer the war procession’s departure from the city. The sun was high and
the day hot, and the eager spectators had already waited for hours. Turning back to look at
Flavius Maximus, Vespasian realized that the citizens would have to wait longer still, for he
refused to leave the tribune in control of the capital until matters were clearly understood.
“What say you?” he asked sternly. “Are you up to the task? Will you and your two legions fight to
the death if need be to maintain control in my absence? If not, simply tell me and I will appoint
another in your stead. I will attach no shame to your decision should you decline. But I must know
that whomever I leave in charge can be relied on.”
Putting down his wineglass, Flavius rose from his seat at the meeting table he shared with
Persephone and Lucius Marius. Without hesitation he walked to his emperor. Thumping his
clenched right fist against his chest, then opening his palm and thrusting it forward, he gave
Vespasian his best military salute. Vespasian eyed him warily, wondering whether the show of
loyalty was a bit too hearty.
“You have my devotion unto death,” Flavius answered. “Surely you know that. We have fought in
many battles together, and I wish I were going with you yet again. But we each know that a soldier
cannot choose where he fights. I have every confidence that you will succeed in taking the
Shashidan mines and return home in triumph. Seeing our forces parade back through the forum
with countless wagons full of Shashidan gold will indeed be a day to tell our children’s children
about.”
Thinking about how his course had come to be set, Vespasian thoughtfully walked farther out onto
the balcony, this time allowing the adoring crowds to see him. At once thunderous cheers arose
and thousands of flower petals filled the air like so many snowflakes suddenly in a blizzard.
Despite having secured the public’s badly needed confidence, Vespasian remained worried, ever
calculating.
My subjects desperately want this campaign, Vespasian thought as he waved back at them. And
why wouldn’t they, after the Suffragat took such pains to persuade them of its righteousness. But
what do civilians know of war? Just one day on the battlefield would change many minds, but there
can be no going back now. As he watched the crowd, his thoughts drifted back to the difficult
Suffragat meeting that he had overseen yesterday.
The ordeal of choosing a tribune to rule in Vespasian’s absence had been politically charged and
time consuming. The Pon Q’tar had wanted a man named Magnus Attilus to oversee Ellistium in
Vespasian’s absence, and in many ways Attilus would have been a good choice. Attilus was
mature and wise, a brilliant field commander and a powerful craft practitioner. He might have
served well, and he had been on Vespasian’s list of choices.
But in the end Attilus was the Pon Q’tar’s man through and through, and because of Vespasian’s
growing concerns about Gracchus’ motives, the emperor had finally rejected him. As expected,
the Pon Q’tar immediately voiced an outraged protest. The Suffragat had then bickered for hours
like maids at the market until Vespasian became disgusted and finally used his power of official
decree to proclaim Flavius as the new Imperator Tempitatus, or temporary ruler. Flavius was well
aware of how he had come to be chosen, the emperor’s defiant act further cementing his
well-known allegiance to Vespasian even more.
Hoping that he had chosen wisely, Vespasian took another deep breath, then turned to again look
at the man who would serve in his stead. If there was ever a stalwart tribune, it was Flavius.
Short, stocky, and sturdy as a marble column, Flavius wore a neatly trimmed red beard. Dark
blue eyes and a flat, crooked nose that had been crushed twice in battle highlighted his imposing
face. His hair was red, close-cropped, and thinning slightly at the temples. As he stood before
Vespasian he looked splendid in his dress uniform, complete with golden breastplate and
matching gauntlets, greaves, and blood-red cape.
Flavius was a devoted family man with a loving wife named Atia and three sons of fully endowed
blood, each of whom was a centurion in the famed Twenty-fifth Legion. Vespasian knew that
watching their sons go would be hard for Flavius and Atia, but their loyalty to the empire was
unswerving.
He looks every bit the commanding emperor, Vespasian thought as he studied Flavius. That is
good, for his lot here will not be an easy one.
Vespasian glanced over Flavius’ shoulder to give the First Tribune a questioning look. Lucius took
another sip of wine, thinking. After placing the wine goblet back atop the table he nodded, signaling
his agreement. Vespasian looked back into Flavius’ eyes.
“Very well, then,” he said simply. “It is done.”
Walking to his desk, Vespasian took up a rolled-up parchment and a gold ring, then walked back
to stand before Flavius. He handed the parchment to the new Imperator Tempitatus. Flavius
accepted it gratefully.
“This official decree holds my and Gracchus’ signatures,” Vespasian said. “It is also marked with
my seal, further proving that I have appointed you to your new station. In the absence of the
Suffragat it additionally empowers you to declare martial law and to do away with the right to trial
should you see fit. If a revolt arises, immediately set an example by executing several of the
suspected rabble-rousers. Their guilt or innocence is unimportant—nothing deters anarchy like
very sudden and very public killings. Make their deaths slow and gruesome before giving their
bodies to the usual lot of corpse collectors and bone grinders.”
Vespasian then handed the gold signet ring to Flavius. It was a gorgeous piece of jewelry,
produced overnight on the emperor’s order. The letter F was deeply inscribed into the face of the
ring. Vespasian watched as Flavius reverently placed it onto the third finger of his right hand.
“Guard that ring with your life, just as I guard mine,” Vespasian said. “It is the only way that I will
know that your messages are genuine. Most of your communiqués will be by mental communion
with Gracchus. But if you wish to tell me something in secret, send a parchment containing your
seal by messenger bird. It will take longer, but I will have no doubt of its veracity.”
Flavius gave Vespasian another crisp salute. “All will be as you order,” he said. Then he stepped
nearer and placed one hand atop Vespasian’s shoulder. “And I thank you for this honor,” he said
softly.
Vespasian gave a short laugh. “Don’t thank me yet, old friend,” he said wryly. “The time for that
will be if I come home laden with Shashidan gold.”
“You mean when!” Lucius laughingly shouted.
Vespasian looked over to see that the First Tribune had risen to his feet. Taking another slug of
wine, he smiled broadly, then sauntered past Vespasian and Flavius and out onto the balcony.
The impatient crowd promptly roared again, this time so loudly that it nearly hurt everyone’s ears.
Smiling, Lucius turned back to look at Vespasian.
“Now that the formalities are over, it’s high time we got going!” he said with a wink. “Those poor
civilians waiting down there are starting to wilt.”
Vespasian nodded at Lucius, then looked at Persephone and reached out to her.
“My love,” he said simply.
Persephone rose from the table to take her husband’s hand. As she did so, Vespasian stretched
his other hand out toward Flavius. The Imperator Tempitatus responded by slapping his palm
against the inside of Vespasian’s forearm and grasping it firmly, signaling the common greeting
between devoted legionnaires.
Vespasian smiled. “Walk out with us,” he said to Flavius. “I want the people to see you standing
by my side in your new role. It will help to cement the transition.”
Vespasian raised one hand and called the craft. As the massive doors parted and Persephone,
Lucius, and Flavius passed through, Vespasian paused for a moment to take a last look around
the room in which he had agonized over so many difficult decisions. For better or worse, from this
day forward all of his choices would be made in the field. Finally he turned and followed the others
out.
In the end it would take hours for Vespasian’s lead chariot, Persephone’s personal litter, the litters
of the Pon Q’tar members and Julia Idaeus, and the two valiant legions that would return to serve
under Flavius’ command to navigate the broad forum and wend their way among the thousands of
adoring citizens. Trumpeters and drummers heralded Vespasian’s departure while untold
multitudes of colorful handkerchiefs waved and thousands more flower petals rained down from
windows and balconies. In two days the procession would link up with the remaining twenty-eight
legions awaiting them at the fountainhead of the Six Rivers, near the boundary of the Borderlands.
From there the Pon Q’tar’s azure portals would transport them the thousands of leagues to where
the fighting would start in earnest. It would be a campaign like no other, and regardless of its
success or failure, it would forever change the fate of Rustannica.
As Vespasian guided his two white stallions through the forum and toward the city limits, even
now he worried about the great venture that he had birthed. Little did he understand the ever-rising
danger of what he had set in motion, for there were forces awaiting him the likes of which no
Rustannican emperor had ever seen.
Deciding to meet his destiny head-on, Vespasian grimly slapped his reins across the stallions’
haunches.

CHAPTER XXVI
FROM HIS VANTAGE POINT ON THE CAVE FLOOR TRISTAN looked up to watch ever more
Minion warriors walk down the stone steps and enter the Caves of the Paragon. The torches they
carried cast macabre shadows across the cave walls, reminding him of how eerie this beautiful
place could be.
Wigg, Scars, Tyranny, Astrid, Phoebe, and Jessamay stood nearby, each of them stunned into
silence by this wondrous place. Tristan had come here several times before and he knew what
this first chamber looked like. But some members of his party had never visited here, and
amazement registered on their faces. Despite Tristan’s familiarity with the Caves, their
magnificence again took his breath away.
The journey to the Caves had been uneventful, but Tristan and his group remained unaware of
how to find the Azure Sea. As a precaution, each warrior carried a supply of food and potable
water strapped across his or her back, in case the search became protracted. But Tristan still
hoped that they might somehow find the sea without great difficulty, allowing them to soon be on
their way to Shashida. Looking around again, he recalled what he knew of this sacred place.
The Caves had supposedly been carved out of living rock aeons ago by the Ones Who Came
Before, but no one on the eastern side of the Tolenkas knew for sure. The Conclave believed that
a previous Jin’Sai and Jin’Saiou had used the caves as a hiding place for the Tome and the
Paragon after their unsuccessful bid to secure their destinies, and one could only assume that
they were long dead.
More than three hundred years ago, Wigg had found the Caves quite by accident. The Paragon
had been suspended amid the rushing red waterfall, the vibrant waters supporting the life of the
stone while it awaited its new masters. Those new masters were to become the Directorate of
Wizards, the Vigors mystics aligned against Failee, her Coven, and the forces of the Vagaries in
the struggle known as the Sorceresses’ War. Had the two precious artifacts come into the
possession of Failee rather than the Directorate, the world east of the Tolenkas might have
become a far darker place.
As Tristan watched, Wigg raised one hand and called the craft to bring flame to the many torches
lining the cavern walls. With the added light came a better view of this amazing first room.
Tristan and the others were standing on the floor of a huge, irregular underground cavern that was
at least several hundred meters long in each direction as well as high. Stalactites of every color
and description hung from the ceiling, some so long they almost reached the floor. Many of their
older brothers had found the floor some time ago, creating here and there the impression of
marvelously beautiful stone columns.
As yet more Minions cautiously entered the cave, the roar of the nearby waterfall continued to
assault Tristan’s ears, and he turned to look. The waterfall was nearly the same height as the
stone steps—about forty feet—and at least as wide. Springing from a tunnel in the opposite wall
of the cavern, the water traveled about twenty feet across a smooth stone slab before finally
falling gracefully over a precipice into a large stone pool at the bottom. At the far end of the pool,
the water ran out through a low tunnel in the rock, ensuring that the basin would never overflow.
Looking at the other walls, Tristan noticed a great variety of plants and flowers growing on them
that he had seen nowhere else, and the floor was also covered with thick green foliage. Every
plant was huge, its colors amazingly vibrant.
Against one stone wall stood a large, square-cut tunnel entrance, and Tristan knew by experience
that entering it was the only way to penetrate deeper into the Caves. It was obviously man-made
and at least ten feet high and fifteen feet across. A smooth rectangular panel carved into the stone
wall above it contained an inscription in Old Eutracian. As Tristan thought about what lay beyond
it, he recalled the many added passageways and confusing intersections that his late son
Nicholas had excavated while preparing to construct the Gates of Dawn.
But there was more about the Azure Sea that confounded Tristan and Wigg besides the
seemingly impossible task of finding it again. Ragnar, the traitorous consul who had served
Nicholas, had told them that the sea was a byproduct of Nicholas’ excavation of the Caves to
house his hatchlings as they matured. Ragnar had gone on to say that another underground river
ran through that area, not unlike the falling red waters of the first chamber that had for so long
supported the life of the unattended Paragon. During the excavation, the unusual spring was laid
bare, he claimed, flooding the entire area around it and creating the strange sea. But rather than
being red, these waters were azure—the color generated during a significant manifestation of the
craft.
Even so, with the discovery of the subtle matter message claiming that the way to Shashida lay
across the Azure Sea, Ragnar’s explanation suddenly made no sense. The message was
supposedly aeons old, yet Nicholas’ excavation of the Caves had occurred fewer than three years
before.
So who was telling the truth? the Conclave wondered. Had the consul lied knowingly? Had the
madness caused by his partial transformation into a Blood Stalker caused him to believe the lies
he told? Or was he simply playing some twisted prank on Tristan and Wigg while he had abused
them? The Conclave mystics had discussed the matter for hours and arrived at no satisfactory
conclusion. In the end they agreed that the only true answer lay with the Ones in Shashida. And to
get there the Conclave must first cross the Azure Sea.
No matter what the truth might be, our path is clear, Tristan thought. We must enter that
forbidding tunnel. But from the first confusing intersection to the last, we will be walking into
uncharted territory.
Just then Tristan realized something else. Every other time that he had come here, the red waters
of the caves had exerted a strange effect on him, causing his heart to beat rapidly, his breathing
to become labored, and a feeling of faintness to overpower him. More than once these symptoms
had nearly killed him. Wigg and Faegan had long assumed that the high quality of Tristan’s blood
caused the cave water to affect him adversely whenever he neared it. He had in fact been
dreading his entrance into this first chamber for just those reasons.
But today he felt no such life-threatening symptoms. Smiling, he again turned to look at the
waterfall. Not being affected by the water was a wonderfully liberating feeling.
Just then Wigg approached. Raising one eyebrow at Tristan, the wizard placed his hands into the
opposite sleeves of his robe.
“You seem to remain well this time,” he mused.
“Yes,” Tristan answered. “It’s amazing. Why do you think that is?”
Wigg scowled with thought. “I can only guess that this unexpected development has to do with
your unique blood,” he answered.
“In what way?” Tristan asked.
Wigg shook his head. “Unknown,” he answered. “It might be because your blood was once azure,
but a better explanation eludes me. Yet another question for the Ones, it would seem.”
Tristan turned to look at the Minion warriors still descending the stairs. Two full phalanxes had
accompanied him here—one phalanx for each Black Ship—for a total of four thousand. He then
looked around the massive stone room and back at the First Wizard.
“We need to make a decision,” Tristan said. “The tunnel entrance is only about fifteen feet across,
yet every warrior must follow us in. Even so, this first chamber seems large enough to
accommodate everyone at once. Should we wait until all the warriors have assembled, or shall
we enter the tunnel while they are still descending the stairs?”
Wigg turned to look at the tunnel entrance, thinking. Then he looked at the seemingly endless
parade of warriors still entering the Caves. It would take many hours for them all to assemble, he
realized. And even then only a certain number could enter the tunnel at once. He turned to look at
Tristan.
“The Conclave members should go now,” he said, “followed by the first group of warriors. We’ll
leave Ox in charge here to oversee the flow of remaining warriors into the tunnel and then bring up
the rear. In any case, it’s important that—”
“Wigg!” Jessamay shouted from somewhere behind them. “Come here—I need you!”
The Conclave members turned to see Jessamay standing before the tunnel entrance. There was
a strange, searching look on her face. When her eyes met Wigg’s she hurriedly waved him over.
As the Conclave members neared her, she hushed them into silence.
“Do you hear that?” she asked Wigg.
Wigg called the craft to augment his hearing. Soon the look on his face told Tristan that whatever
sound Jessamay was talking about, the First Wizard now also heard. Unable to detect any noise
but the rushing waterfall, the others simply stood there, baffled.
“I do,” Wigg answered. “How odd…”
Taking a step backward, he looked into the depths of the tunnel. “It’s coming from in there,” he
said. “But this sound is something new. I have never heard it before.”
“What are you talking about?” Tyranny demanded. “I can’t hear anything except our voices and the
waterfalls.”
“Nor is it likely that you would,” Wigg answered the privateer. “Only a craft practitioner could
detect this.”
“What does it sound like?” Tristan asked.
Wigg looked at Jessamay. “Help me,” he said simply. Guessing Wigg’s intentions, Jessamay
nodded.
The two mystics turned to face the vibrant waterfalls. After looking at one another, they raised
their hands and again called the craft. To Tristan’s amazement, the waterfalls stopped producing
any sound, even though the water still tumbled down into the stone pool as vigorously as before.
Tristan was about to speak again when he too heard the new sound. At first he couldn’t identify it.
But he finally recognized it for what it was. It was the sound of wave after wave crashing against
some distant shore.
Is this the Azure Sea we hear? he asked himself. But how could that be? The sea supposedly lies
far away from this first chamber. And even if it is the Azure Sea, why do I hear it this time but
never before?
Tristan looked at Wigg with unbelieving eyes. “How…” he breathed.
Wigg shook his head. “I don’t know,” he answered. His expression was worried. “But two things
are certain. First, this sound is being carried here by the craft. Given how far away the sea
probably lies from this chamber, that must be the case. And second, the sound is meant to draw
us in and to help us find the sea.”
“But who would do this?” Tristan asked. “Few craft practitioners know about this place. Fewer still
would have the ability to enact such a spell.”
Wigg turned to again look at the tunnel. The ocean noises continued unabated. Come to us, the
distant waves seemed to whisper. Come to us, for your destinies lie this way.
After thinking for a time, the First Wizard looked at the Conclave members.
“There is but one likely answer,” he said. “The Ones did this. I believe that they left this spell
behind to be activated when the subtle matter message was released in the Redoubt. While it’s
true that the message did not mention this phenomenon, I believe that the coincidence is too great
to be anything else. In any event, we have no choice but to enter the tunnel. Take heart—following
the sound should make our quest an easier one.”
Tristan glanced over at Tyranny to see her shoot him a decidedly skeptical look. Tristan shared
her suspicions, but he also understood that they had no choice but to follow the sound wherever it
led them.
“All right,” he said. “We’ll go.”
Tristan turned to look at the growing number of eager Minions milling behind him. “Ox!” he called
out. “Come here!”
A few moments later the stalwart warrior appeared by Tristan’s side. He came to attention and
clicked his boot heels together. “I live to serve,” he said.
Tristan gave him a commanding look. “Have the two crates brought forward,” he ordered. “Make
sure that they are handled carefully!” Ox quickly disappeared into the crowd to do his duty.
Soon the huge Minion’s bellowing voice could be heard again as he led the way back, roughly
parting the warrior crowd as he came. Behind him walked two pairs of hand-picked male warriors,
each pair bearing a wooden crate hung between two poles. On Tristan’s order they gently set the
crates down near his feet. Tristan gazed at the crates, part of him still unable to believe what they
contained.
Each crate held one miniaturized Black Ship that rested securely in its cradle. The empty space
surrounding each ship had been enchanted to hold the vessels in place and to buffer them
against jostling or—Afterlife forbid—dropping. One of the crates also held the jar containing some
of the remaining subtle matter, the rest left behind in the Redoubt for safekeeping.
Each dark wooden crate stood about three feet high by two feet wide and was divided in half down
its center. The bottom seams were connected by brass hinges, and the halves were held
together by leather straps with brass buckles. Stout poles ran beneath the straps so that each
pair of warriors could carry a crate by placing the poles atop their shoulders, the crates
suspended between them as they walked along. Each crate glowed hauntingly with the hue of the
craft.
Tristan looked at the four warriors who would carry the precious crates. Each was a
battle-scarred graybeard carefully selected for his strength and loyalty. Although Arron, Taredd,
Rhun, and Rafal were older than many, Traax had heartily recommended each of them, and Ox
and Duvessa had agreed. Tristan gave each warrior a hard look.
“These crates and their contents are your responsibility,” he warned them. “You will guard them
with your lives. They are the keys to getting across the Azure Sea and back alive. Not only do the
ships and the subtle matter rest in your hands, but so too does the fate of everyone taking part in
this expedition. Do you understand?”
At once all four warriors came to attention. “Yes!” their leader answered sternly. “We will make
sure that the Jin’Sai will not regret the trust he has placed in us.”
Tristan nodded. “See that you do,” he answered.
Tristan looked back at the tunnel entrance with suspicion. There was very little about this
imminent journey that he liked, but they must undertake it if they were to reach Shashida. Ragnar
had poisoned Tristan and blinded Wigg in those murky depths while Nicholas prepared to raise
the three Gates of Dawn. In the end Nicholas had failed, but the savage horrors inflicted on Tristan
in these caves still lingered in his heart and gave him pause.
Worse yet was the inescapable fact that so many warriors would be moving through many
passageways at the same time, creating a logistical nightmare. If Tristan’s group was attacked,
there would be little fighting room, and those warriors following behind him would be nearly
powerless to help. But there was nothing to be done about it.
Tristan was about to give the order to enter the tunnel when he looked up at the inscription,
probably placed there by the Ones. The elegant Old Eutracian script meant nothing to him. He
turned toward Wigg and pointed at the words.
“You never told me what that means,” he said.
Wigg smiled. Without needing to read it, he solemnly recited the ancient inscription:
“Quicumque ambulare semtae accipere veritas,” the wizard answered. “Whoever walks these
paths shall learn the truth.”
“That doesn’t mean much,” Tyranny protested.
Wigg shook his head. “On the contrary,” he answered. “The search for the truth is why we’re all
here, is it not?”
Saying nothing more, the wizard raised one arm and called the craft to illuminate the millions of
radiance stones embedded in the tunnel ceiling. At once the passageway glowed with a pale
sage-green light. Tristan looked far into the tunnel but could see no end to its depths.
After nodding to Wigg, Tristan stepped inside, and the other Conclave members followed. As Ox
waited behind to direct the flow of warriors into the tunnel, Taredd, Rhun, Arron, and Rafal lifted
the poles bearing the crates atop their shoulders and also entered. Watching them go, Ox
clenched his jaw.
Go safe, Jin’Sai, he thought, as Tristan’s back finally became lost in the crowd. This time Ox will
be too far behind to protect you.

CHAPTER XXVII
IN TWO MORE HOURS THE SUN WOULD RISE, MAKING IT more difficult for the lead cleric to
hide his face.
As Gracchus skulked through the dark war camp, his need to be anonymous was irritating. It
made him want to rebel, to stand erect, to announce his august presence to these lowly
legionnaires. But to succeed in his plan, the Pon Q’tar lead cleric would have to swallow his pride
for the moment and do what he must. And so he hurried on, bent over like some nameless,
crippled beggar trying to avoid wandering centurions as he navigated the camp.
The war procession had halted for the night among broad, rolling fields well south of Ellistium.
Behind Gracchus the luxurious tents of the emperor, the Tribunes, and the Pon Q’tar retreated
into the distance, the oil lamps inside each tent casting their soft glow through the canvas and into
the night. Between him and his destination were thousands of legionnaires ringing the camp’s
center, not to mention the caged animals and the thousands of carts, chariots, and wagons that
always accompanied great Rustannican campaigns.
Hurrying on, Gracchus put as much distance between himself and the Blood Royal’s compound
as he could. For a moment he regretted the decision to leave the secret structure so far from the
center of the camp, only to realize again that he had little choice if he was to visit it without others
knowing. He had explained the decision to Vespasian by insisting that the structure would be safer
by making it invisible and not circling it with centurion guards, just as it had been when it secretly
left Ellistium with the war procession. Vespasian had at first been skeptical of the idea but he
finally agreed, largely because his forces had not yet entered enemy territory.
Gracchus had wisely replaced his white and burgundy Pon Q’tar robe with the drab brown one he
now wore, but it added to his grating sense of ignominy. Pulling the hood higher, he continued to
cloak his endowed blood as he hurried across the dewy grass, circumventing yet another group
of tired legionnaires as they sat drinking beside a roaring campfire.
There were tens of thousands of empire soldiers in these two accompanying legions alone, and
each one knew Gracchus by sight. Worse, there would be many more of them to avoid once
Vespasian’s group joined up with the forces waiting at the head of the Six Rivers. Their added
numbers would make his visits to the secret building far more difficult, but the die was cast and
there could be no going back.
Above all, Vespasian, Persephone, and Lucius must not learn of his secret assignations. Should
legionnaires challenge him, Gracchus would silently kill them with the craft, then magically
dispose of the bodies. Although desertion among the legions was rare, it was not unheard of, But
even Gracchus hoped that that would not be needed—not because he would shrink from murder
to achieve his ends, but because it would further complicate his already devious plan. Should the
Oraculum give him unwelcome news, he surely didn’t want Vespasian aware of his visits
beforehand.
Finally exiting the camp without incident, he scrambled down a small gully, then traveled up a dry
river bed for about fifty meters. The great oak tree standing on the riverbank served as his
landmark. He stopped and looked around.
The night was still, the three red moons casting their magenta glow over everything with their
customary beauty. The night creatures that had stopped singing when he neared gradually took
up their songs again as he stood motionless, his endowed senses searching for a sign of human
life. When his surroundings finally returned to normal, Gracchus decided that he was at last
alone. He raised his arms and called the craft.
Soon a temple appeared in the center of the riverbed, its structure gleaming serenely in the
moonlight. Small and low, it was made of white alabaster with a peaked roof and seven steps
leading to its columned portico. Heavy marble doors locked from the outside stood high and broad
in the facing wall. Although the temple had but one purpose, it was vital to Gracchus’ plans.
Despite being a huge encumbrance, the entire Suffragat had agreed that it should come on the
campaign. But Gracchus had his own reasons for insisting that the temple be brought along, for
there were secrets that only the Pon Q’tar must know if the Vagaries were to rule this side of the
world as well as the other.
The lead cleric hurried up the stone steps, then called the craft. At once the massive doors swung
wide. He walked into the temple, and the doors silently closed behind him. Had anyone been
watching, he would have seen the temple start to shimmer, then disappear from sight, leaving
only the night creatures to attest that it ever existed.
Lowering his hood, Gracchus walked midway across the highly polished floor. Looking at the far
wall he was relieved to see that the Pon Q’tar’s wondrous construct had survived the journey
intact. The inside of the temple was simple and bare, with only a handful of enchanted wall
torches providing light. The air was warm and odorless.
As he had hoped, the far wall glowed with a soft azure hue. Its depths seemed limitless. Curved
shards of white light wheeled and streaked through the azure aura. The strange masterwork of
the craft emitted a soft roaring, crackling sound like that of a blazing fire. Raising his hand,
Gracchus again summoned the craft. At once the shimmering wall slid closer, causing the
familiar glowing cube to take form. The cube came to a stop a few meters from his boots.
“Come to me,” he ordered.
As the Oraculum emerged, a strange look showed on her face, and her dark eyes searched the
unfamiliar room. Her tattered gray gown flowing about her in the mist, she said nothing as she
hung weightless in her endowed prison.
“Do you know where you are, Matsuko?” Gracchus asked almost politely.
“I know that this room is not the one in which I have been imprisoned for so many centuries,” she
answered. “I could sense that this structure was moving and that until only moments ago it was
surrounded by the workings of the craft—a spell of invisibility, perhaps. But I do not know where
we have come or why.”
“We are on a great campaign against Shashida,” Gracchus answered. “You are now housed in
temple built of solid alabaster and especially enchanted to keep you imprisoned. I caused a spell
of forgetfulness to pass over you while you and your cube were moved from belowground. We
call this place the Oraculum Tempitatum. But you need be told no more than that.”
“A great campaign,” Matsuko mused. At first the news stunned her, but soon a slight smile
crossed her lips. “This is the first time that you have taken me from my underground prison. Your
reasons for bringing me with you must be important, considering that you could simply have left
me in Ellistium and touched my mind to hear my pronouncements. Why am I here, Gracchus?”
The cleric’s jaw hardened. Bringing the Oraculum along on the campaign was a great hardship,
but a necessary one. With Vespasian’s blessing, this temple had been hastily constructed by the
Pon Q’tar to move the Oraculum without fear of her escaping imprisonment.
Moving her glowing cube from one locale to another without encasing it within another strongly
walled object was unthinkable—she remained far too powerful for Gracchus to trust such
pedestrian measures of confinement as mere chains or barred cages. Only solid, enchanted
stone might keep her trapped should she somehow slip the bonds of her azure cube. That was
why she had been imprisoned beneath the ground so long ago and why she and her glowing cube
were being transported in this gleaming temple, its alabaster sides enchanted by the craft to
strengthen them and to cloak the presence of her highly endowed blood.
Causing the temple to become invisible and to float through the air among the advancing legions
had been a huge drain on several of the cleric’s gifts. The strain in the coming days would be no
less severe. But it was needed because the legions would soon be linking up, then entering
Shashidan territory, the Oraculum’s onetime home world. Moreover, the Oraculum was unknown
to anyone other than the Suffragat, and so she had to be spirited from the capital in secret. If her
pronouncements could be secretly used to their advantage in the war, the clerics’ and emperor’s
victories would seem all the more inspired.
Despite her advanced age, Gracchus suspected that the Oraculum’s powers were still great. The
Vigors worshippers would not only kill to get her back, but they would consider her return to their
midst a huge moral victory. Her escape would be a no less stunning defeat for those who ruled
the Rustannican Empire, so no chance could be taken that she might somehow vanish.
Gracchus needed her visions if he was to wisely manage the ongoing struggle being carried out
by the Viper Lord. But there was another, far more personal reason why he had insisted during
the Suffragat voting session that the Oraculum accompany the legions on this mighty campaign.
It was one that only he understood and could put into practice. He needed to look into her face as
she offered up her pronouncements.
Gracchus had never dared to rely on the convenience of distantly touching her mind to learn what
she had to say. Instead, he had for aeons visited her personally. He needed to look into her eyes,
to see her face, to hear the quality of her voice to determine the veracity of her words. Indeed, by
now his ability to judge her persona had become so keen that he immediately knew when she
was lying, and because of it she had not dared do so for centuries. Even so, should he abandon
visiting her in person and rely only on touching her mind, he had no doubt that her lying would
recommence. Like the desperate campaign against Shashida, the struggle being carried out by
the Viper Lord was of the utmost importance. The intelligence gleaned from the Oraculum must
be genuine. And for that, only being in her presence would do.
Gracchus refused to answer. She knew why she was here, he realized. Besides, her inquiry was
meant only to taunt him, and he would not honor her with a response.
“Tell me what you have seen,” he said.
Again the ghostly, knowing smile crossed the Oraculum’s lips. As it did, a tingle went down
Gracchus’ spine.
This is why I come to see her, he thought. It is small gestures like this that tell me if her words are
genuine. Her smile says that she has bad news and that she will enjoy telling it to me. That alone
is enough to ensure that her information is genuine.
When Matsuko did not speak as soon as the anxious cleric wanted, he took a quick step forward,
glaring into her weathered face.
“Tell me, you wizened crone!” he demanded. “What have you seen?”
Again her curious smile surfaced. “I have seen many things,” she answered, “not one of which
you will like.”
Gracchus’ heart fell. “Go on,” he said cautiously.
“The Jin’Sai’s mystics have miniaturized two of their Black Ships,” she answered. “He and two
Minion phalanxes enter the caves in search of the Azure Sea. They bring the ships with them. I
needn’t tell you why. The other two ships remain full size and were left behind for the Jin’Saiou’s
use in hunting down the Viper Lord. They rest in newly constructed cradles that sit alongside the
royal palace in Tammerland.”
Gracchus took an involuntary step backward, stunned. “How…” he breathed.
“They used some of the subtle matter to accomplish their ends,” the Oraculum answered. Then
she went still again as she floated hauntingly in her majestic cube. Gracchus found her defiant
silence infuriating.
Enraged by her teasing answer, he shook his fists at her. “Of course they used the subtle matter,
you Vigors bitch!” he shouted. “But how did they come by the specialized knowledge to employ
it?”
“From the Shashidans,” she answered. “They left behind both a message that Shashida lay
across the Azure Sea, and a formula showing the Jin’Sai’s mystics how to transform the ships.
Their plan was perfect. And now the most powerful of all the Jin’Sais ever to walk the earth has
finally uncovered it. As we speak, he and his mystics search the Caves. If they are not intercepted
and destroyed—”
“I know full well what will happen if they are not destroyed!” Gracchus screamed. He had become
so uncharacteristically incensed that his whole body was shaking. Calling the craft, he arduously
settled his nerves, then gave the Oraculum a seething look.
“You have made a grave error, Gracchus,” Matsuko said. “Why did you order Khristos and his
servants to wait inside the Caves rather than attack the Jin’Sai aboveground? Tristan has but two
phalanxes with him. By allowing this you have granted him a great advantage, it would seem.
Every step he takes brings him that much closer to Shashida.”
The Oraculum smiled again. “Things are unraveling on you, Gracchus,” she said. “It would seem
that the lead Pon Q’tar cleric is not as invulnerable now as during the heady days of yesteryear.”
Gracchus paced the floor, fuming. He would not tell her why he had allowed the Jin’Sai to enter
the caves, even though there had been no other choice. He could not let her know that Khristos’
servants were starving for lack of endowed bodies on which to feed and that the only way to
sustain them in such multitudes and simultaneously augment their powers was to send them into
the caves to devour Nicholas’ glowing eggs. But as he considered the situation further, he again
took heart.
Khristos still had the element of surprise. Moreover, the Jin’Sai’s forces would be heavily
outnumbered. Despite the Oraculum’s grim pronouncements, Gracchus’ plan still had the edge.
He could of course commune with Khristos and call off the attack, but that would allow the Jin’Sai
to reach the sea unimpeded.
No, he realized. It would be better to let things stay on course even if Tristan did bring two ships
with him. But the Conclave would have to be stopped at all costs, for Gracchus could not fathom
the troubles that would ensue if the Jin’Sai crossed the Azure Sea. Even now he could imagine
Khristos employing the spell that he had ordered him to use, causing the sounds of the sea to
reach the first chamber of the caves and draw the Jin’Sai near.
“Tell me, Gracchus,” the Oraculum said, interrupting his thoughts. “Does the Blood Royal know
how badly things have gone awry on the other side of the world? If he does, I can only imagine
how angry he must be with you. And if not, there must be some facet about all this that you hide
from him. Either way, the future does not bode well. You are playing a very dangerous game.”
The sudden combination of the Oraculum’s bad news and her growing insolence caused
Gracchus’ anger to finally reach the boiling point. Deciding to teach her a long-awaited lesson in
humility, he raised his arms and called the craft.
At once the Oraculum began writhing in exquisite pain—the same pain that Gracchus had used
when she had first tried lying to him so long ago. She had not felt such agony for aeons, and it
came as a total shock. But this time she was not being punished for lying, because her words
had been true. Instead, Gracchus wanted only to reestablish his personal brand of terror.
As Gracchus continued to torture her she felt hot, searing pains burn along her nerve endings like
blazing fires running amok through a tinder-dry forest. She screamed as Gracchus’ wicked gifts
continued to pass through the cube—the cube that had been enchanted in such a way that his
spells could reach her, but inside of which only her ability to see what the Orb of the Vigor saw
was of use to her. She had tried for aeons to secretly unravel Gracchus’ manipulative spell that
enforced this one-sided effect, but to no end. And so she hung helpless in the azure mist, her
body jangling like a marionette manipulated by a cruel master.
Gracchus finally stopped the spell, and the Oraculum crashed to the floor. He hadn’t killed
her—that would be unthinkable, even for him. He needed her alive, at least until his secret plans
involving Vespasian, the campaign, and the Viper Lord had come to fruition. But when that day
arrived, he would relish watching her die.
As she lay sobbing on the cold stone floor he called the craft and ordered the glistening azure
cube to again retreat into the far wall. Pulling up the hood of his well-worn robe, he ordered the
doors to open and briskly exited the Oraculum Tempitatum. There were new things to be done,
including communing with Khristos as soon as possible.
When the doors closed, Matsuko slowly raised her head. She felt broken, used, abandoned.
Tears filled her eyes, their coming as much a result of having to tell Gracchus the truth as of the
intense pain he had inflicted on her. The physical pain would go away, she realized, but the
psychological torment of continually having to help Gracchus defeat her Shashidan countrymen
would remain, just as it had done for countless centuries.
Suddenly she could again sense Gracchus’ unique application of the craft, suggesting that this
strange new prison in which he was now housed had once more become invisible. Her fellow
Shashidans might soon be looking right at it and not know that it existed or that she was
imprisoned inside. That thought pierced her being more painfully than any torture the lead cleric
might inflict on her.
How clever, Gracchus, she thought as what strength she still possessed slowly returned. But the
lead cleric had said too much, she realized. Unless she missed her guess, she and this strange
new temple would soon be in Shashidan territory. For what reason, she still did not know. But one
thing was certain.
If there was a way to escape this new prison, she would find it and take her sweet, long-overdue
revenge.

CHAPTER XXVIII

“HEAR ME, KHRISTOS,” GRACCHUS ORDERED. “YOU MUST COMMUNE with me, even if
the battle has started! What I have to tell you is of the utmost importance!”
Waiting among some of his many servants in one of the dark tunnels facing the Azure Sea,
Khristos immediately sensed the cleric calling out to his mind. His lead vipers had returned,
saying that the Jin’Sai was nearing the cave entrance. It would only be a matter of time now.
Cloaking his blood while also forcing the ocean sounds through one of the many tunnels was
severely taxing his gifts, but he would prevail. As Khristos patiently waited he hungered for
Failee’s killer to come nearer so that he might personally avenge her. Since learning that it had
been Tristan who murdered his love, his need to face the Jin’Sai had become overpowering.
Clutching his silver staff in one hand, he fell to his knees and closed his eyes.
“I am here, Gracchus,” he answered silently. “The battle has yet to be joined.”
“Good,” the lead cleric answered. “The Jin’Sai brings with him prizes that must be destroyed at all
costs. Two of his Black Ships have been shrunk by a craft device called subtle matter. He means
to use the ships to cross the Azure Sea. I understand how badly you want to see the Jin’Sai die,
for I share the same dream. But destroying the ships and the subtle matter is of equal
importance. Destroy them, Khristos, and do not fail!”
For a moment the Viper Lord was dumbfounded that the ships could be so radically transformed.
Even Failee would have not dreamed it possible.
“We will not fail,” he said. “Consider the ships destroyed and the Jin’Sai as good as dead.”
As he sensed Gracchus’ ken slipping away, Khristos opened his eyes and came to his feet.
Knowing that time was short, he started urgently whispering new orders to his lead vipers, then
concentrated again on sending the ocean sounds through the length of a nearby tunnel—the one
the Jin’Sai and his traitorous Vigors worshippers would soon exit. Then the Viper Lord smiled.
The game was afoot.

     THREE HOURS LATER, TRISTAN STOOD JUST INSIDE THE entrance to a rough-hewn
tunnel that looked out onto a sandy beach. The Azure Sea, white-capped and restless, lay
beyond. On Tristan’s orders, no one had ventured outside the tunnel. Unlike the times before, this
trip had been uneventful, something for which the prince and the First Wizard were grateful.
Sword in hand, Tristan could see and hear the waves strike the sandy shoreline about fifty meters
away. Because of the ongoing ocean sounds, reaching the sea had been a far simpler matter
than first assumed when the Conclave discussed this journey in the Redoubt. But that was not to
say that the trip hadn’t been a confusing one.
Many intersections loomed along the way, most of which were unfamiliar even to Tristan and
Wigg. The haunting ocean sounds whirling through the connecting chambers were confusing,
forcing Wigg and Jessamay to use the craft to decide down which of the various tunnels they
should travel. The last time Tristan and Wigg had come here they had been forced to descend a
narrow circular stairway that hemmed them in on both sides. Tristan feared no man or the blade
he carried, but tight spaces bothered him greatly. He badly wanted to leave this claustrophobic
tunnel and set sail over the Azure Sea, for his destiny lay there and he would not be denied.
Wigg could sense Tristan’s restlessness to get moving, but the wizard remained apprehensive.
Something tugged at his senses—something to do with the craft. The feeling had become
stronger as he neared the tunnel exit. Perhaps it is the Ones’ spell, he guessed as he pondered
the matter.
Wigg looked behind him to see the other Conclave members standing there. Farther down the
tunnel, endless hordes of Minion warriors stood bunched together as far as the eye could see.
Many more Minions still followed the trek’s strange path, their extended lines perhaps reaching as
far back as the waterfall chamber.
Wigg could imagine Ox still trying to control the eager warriors with little at his command save his
booming voice. Perhaps more than any of them, Ox would want to be here, standing beside his
Jin’Sai. As Wigg looked down the tunnel, the millions of radiance stones in the ceiling added
ghostly highlights to the warriors’ stern faces.
Tristan had been right about one thing, Wigg realized. Trying to move so many warriors through
these tunnels was creating a monstrous logjam. They badly needed to exit onto the sandy beach,
where everyone could get some breathing room. Still, something gnawed at the old wizard’s
well-known sense of danger.
Standing just behind the Conclave, Taredd, Rhun, Arron, and Rafal had discharged their duties
well and carried the two Black Ships without incident. At Wigg’s order the dark wooden crates had
been set down on the tunnel floor. One crate still held the last of the precious subtle matter.
Tristan’s impatience was starting to overcome him, and he knew that Scars, Tyranny, Astrid,
Phoebe, and Jessamay were also eager to walk out onto the beach. He gave Wigg a questioning
look.
“Why are we waiting?” he asked. “We have arrived without difficulty. We must proceed!”
Wigg pursed his lips as he again looked out the tunnel exit. “There’s something strange out there,”
he said, half to himself, “something more than the Azure Sea. There is a craft presence here that
is eerily familiar yet also foreign.”
“Can you tell what it is?” Tristan asked.
Wigg shook his head. “Only that the craft is at work,” he answered.
The First Wizard glanced over Tristan’s shoulder, and he beckoned Jessamay to come forward.
The sorceress squeezed through the crowd to stand with Tristan and Wigg. The First Wizard
gave her a searching look.
“Do you sense anything unusual?” he asked.
Jessamay closed her eyes. When she opened them, a look of confusion crossed her face.
“I do,” she answered, “but it’s faint. How long have you sensed it?”
“For the last quarter hour,” Wigg replied.
Jessamay smiled. “Your gifts were always stronger than mine,” she said. “Had you not asked me
to search it out I might have missed it altogether.”
“Can you identify it?” Wigg asked.
Jessamay narrowed her eyes while testing her gifts. “Sometimes the sensation feels like partly
cloaked blood. But it changes from one moment to the next—it ebbs and flows much like the sea
lying before us.”
Wigg nodded. “Exactly,” he said. “Would you care to hazard a guess about what it might be? I
want us in agreement before we depart this tunnel.”
Jessamay thought for a moment. “I believe it is the spell that the Ones left behind to force the
ocean sounds through these many passageways,” she finally answered. “It must be that because
of the way it ebbs and flows. Otherwise I cannot say.”
Wigg again turned to look out the tunnel and toward the tempting sea. Its sounds still called to
him, but now he was so close that it was impossible to say whether it was the sea that he heard,
or the spell left behind by the Ones.
Jessamay must be right, he decided. Her analysis makes sense. Still…
Wigg turned to look at Rhun. “Bring me the crate containing the subtle matter,” he ordered. Rhun
immediately came forward with one crate and placed it at the wizard’s feet.
“What are you doing?” Tristan asked.
“If Jessamay and I are wrong, I want the subtle matter with me,” Wigg answered. “The two ships
can be replaced if need be. The subtle matter cannot.”
Wigg called the craft and pointed a bony finger at the crate. Soon the crate started to glow and the
leather belts surrounding it unbuckled themselves and slumped downward. Wigg used the craft to
slowly open the crate’s sides and lower them gently to the floor.
The Ephyra sat in her miniaturized cradle, still twinkling with subtle matter. By way of the craft, a
glass vial containing the subtle matter had been attached to the ship’s cradle. The jar was about
half full of the strange, twinkling material. Wigg reached down and freed it from its resting place.
Before his group had departed the palace, Tristan had watched as Wigg and Faegan transferred
the subtle matter into the flat vial. They had then attached a stout leather cord to the vial’s top. The
First Wizard now placed the cord around his neck, allowing the vial to fall to his chest, hidden
beneath his gray robe. A faint outline of the vial could be seen, but it would hardly be noticed
unless one knew what to look for.
Then Tristan saw something unexpected. A smaller glass vial containing still more subtle matter
had been attached to the inside of the crate. Before he could ask Wigg about it, the wizard
employed the craft to close and secure the crate with its leather straps.
Tristan scowled. “I saw a second vial,” he said. He turned and pointed at the other crate that stood
among the warriors. “Does that crate have one inside it too?”
“It does,” Wigg answered. “Faegan and I fitted each crate with one before we left the palace.”
“Why do that?” Tyranny asked.
Wigg gave the privateer a wink. “Call them insurance,” he said simply. He then turned to face the
Jin’Sai. “It’s time to go,” he announced.
Tristan nodded and looked down the passageway. “Draw your swords!” he shouted.
At once the sound of several thousand Minion dreggans resounded through the tunnel, the
combined ring of their blades unmistakable. Each armed Conclave member also drew his or her
weapon.
“I want a group of warriors to surround the crate bearers and the Conclave members as soon as
they exit the tunnel!” Tristan shouted. “Move toward the shoreline as quickly as you can! As the
phalanxes grow in size I will issue further orders! Let’s go!”
Eager to be free of the oppressing tunnel, Tristan pushed past Wigg and led the way toward the
exit.

    UNKNOWN TO THE CONCLAVE, KHRISTOS HAD HEARD every word.
The Viper Lord had first sensed the Jin’Sai’s supremely gifted blood nearly an hour ago, telling him
that Tristan was nearing the shore. Forty minutes later, he and many of his vipers had quietly left
their hiding places to flatten their bodies against the rock wall on either side of the tunnel. Its exit
lay about one meter above the sandy beach and was the one from which the Vigors forces would
soon spill forth to meet their deaths. Even now, more vipers slithered from other tunnels to take
up places along the length of the rocky wall. When the Minions exited their tunnel they would be
blindsided and slaughtered, their many comrades bunched up behind them ensuring that retreat
would be impossible.
As Khristos stood eagerly waiting beside the tunnel exit, he called on the craft to linger over the
great quality of the Jin’Sai’s endowed blood and listen to every spoken word. The sea waves
crashed against the shore, and the beach lay pristine and unbloodied. But not for much longer, he
thought.
For a moment he was tempted to simply stand before the tunnel entrance and loose bolt after bolt
into it, killing as many Vigors worshippers as he could. Because of the enclosed space, he would
surely destroy many of them. But he could not know whether Tristan, the two Black Ships, or the
subtle matter were positioned farther down the length of the tunnel. If so, they all might escape.
And so he waited patiently, determined to kill his enemies one by one as they exited the tunnel into
which he had so cleverly lured them. Gripping his silver staff tighter, he held it steady alongside
the rock wall, eagerly awaiting his prey. His enemies wouldn’t know what hit them.
Then he heard Tristan give his order to take the beach.

HAD TRISTAN’S GIFT OF K’SHARI NOT SUDDENLY WARNED him of the impending danger, he
would surely have died.
No sooner did he start to cross the plane of the tunnel exit than his blood started tingling wildly,
signaling the rising of his unique gift. This time he followed Aeolus’ advice and he did not question
it.
Leaping from the tunnel, he curled his body into a tight ball, presenting a smaller target. As he hit
the sand he heard a deafening explosion. With his blood telling him that it was kill or be killed, he
somersaulted twice across the beach, then came up swinging.
The bolt that Khristos sent raging from his staff had been meant to tear Tristan in half. Instead it
missed him by mere inches, singeing his hair and skin. Unfazed, the bolt narrowly missed
Khristos’ vipers that lay in wait on the tunnel’s other side, then went crashing into the curved rock
wall surrounding the beach to send tons of rock shards crashing down.
Swinging his dreggan at the first viper he saw, Tristan sent the tip of the blade slicing across the
monster’s throat. The thing’s head partly separated from its body and the viper crashed to the
sand, its tail snaking about wildly before the beast died. But there was no time for Tristan to revel
in his victory, for not only was Khristos again raising his silver staff, but several more vipers were
charging him at once.
Turning on his heels, he let his K’Shari take over again and quickly positioned himself so that the
onrushing vipers were directly between him and the unknown being who so powerfully
commanded the craft. Suddenly a shocking realization went through him.
No wonder our Night Witch patrols could not find the vipers! They were here waiting for us! But
how…why…
Suddenly Khristos’ silver staff loosed another bolt. Employing his gift again, Tristan quickly fell to
the sand. The bolt soared over the beach to crash into the vipers before him, then shot across the
sea to finally fall into the waves, sending plumes of seawater and steam rocketing skyward. The
three monsters facing Tristan exploded in a cacophony of blood, bone, and skin.
Tristan quickly came to his feet to find that he was covered with bloody offal, the grisly sight nearly
causing him to vomit. Determined to stay alive, he hacked down one viper after another. But given
the huge number of servants at Khristos’ command, he knew that his death would not be long in
coming.
Cursing his luck as he crouched by the rock wall, Khristos saw Minion warriors leaping from the
tunnel to land on the sandy beach at an alarming rate. He then saw the other Conclave members
exit the tunnel, surrounded by even more ranks of warriors. In moments the beach became a
riotous madhouse of death-dealing.
At first the valiant Minions were killed with deadly precision by Khristos’ bolts and the vipers’
flashing talons and sharp teeth the moment they left the tunnel. But then some of the charging
Minion ranks began fighting back. As their numbers grew, so did their chances of survival. Soon a
huge battle raged from which neither side could expect any retreat or quarter, as countless more
warriors and vipers swarmed from the many tunnels to join their fellows.
In the midst of the mêlée, Khristos quickly looked around to try to find Tristan and the Black Ships.
But the Jin’Sai had become lost to him among the struggling multitudes, and the Black Ships
were nowhere to be seen. Suddenly the Viper Lord’s eyes caught something floating high above
the Azure Sea. When he raised his face skyward he was stunned by what he saw.
“Wigg…” he breathed.
The hated Vigors wizard looked older than Khristos remembered, but there could be no forgetting
Wigg’s craggy face or his highly arched widow’s peak. Wigg hovered high in the air some
distance out over the ocean. A female craft practitioner hovered beside him—another Conclave
member, Khristos guessed. The two cowards were looking down on the battle, refusing to
engage. But then Khristos saw something else, and he immediately understood. A flood of
emotions ran through him as he realized that Wigg might already have bested him.
Wigg held a wooden crate in his arms, as did the woman hovering by his side. Before Khristos
could act, the First Wizard and Jessamay called the craft and set the crates free onto the air. As
the crates flew farther out over the waves, Khristos realized what they contained, and he
immediately raised his silver staff to destroy them.
But Wigg and Jessamay had seen the Viper Lord. Just as Khristos pointed his staff at the first of
the hovering crates, Wigg and Jessamay raised their arms. The twin bolts that they sent streaking
down at Khristos were met head-on by one the Viper Lord sent upward. The three azure beams
collided in a great explosion over the Azure Sea, about half the distance to the hovering crates.
The explosion’s sound and fury were so massive and the resultant blacklash so great that
Khristos was knocked off his feet and sent crashing against the rock wall, rendering him
unconscious. Wigg and Jessamay were also affected when the echoing shock wave reached
them and were thrown dozens of meters higher into the air as though they had suddenly being
caught up in a hurricane.
Hovering weakly, his body and robe singed, Wigg desperately tried to regain his senses while the
terrible battle raged on the distant shore. Jessamay was in still worse straits, but she remained
airborne—at least for now. Knowing that Khristos would soon recover and attack again, Wigg
summoned all the energy he had left, and he pointed at the nearest hovering crate.
Soon the crate turned azure and its leather belts slipped free of their brass buckles. But this time
only one side of the crate lowered, while the other remained upright to reveal the Ephyra. Again
pointing his hand at the case, Wigg focused his energy on the small vial of subtle matter that had
been fixed to the top of the crate’s upright side. He watched breathlessly as the vial stopper
wriggled free, allowing the subtle matter to sprinkle with agonizing slowness down over the
Ephyra. The First Wizard then put the reverse forestallment into effect that would restore the
Black Ship to her original size.
But before Wigg could turn his attention to the other case, he heard Jessamay moan. He turned
to see her suddenly go unconscious and start tumbling through the air toward the sea. Wigg
quickly sent a wizard’s warp toward her, catching her in midair. He saw her back arch violently,
but there had been no other choice. She might have suffered a broken spine, but hopefully her life
would be saved.
With Jessamay safe for the moment, Wigg turned his attention to the other crate and quickly
duplicated the process he used on the first one. As the vicious battle seesawed back and forth on
the bloody beach, he watched the two crates with wide eyes, desperately hoping that his and
Faegan’s plan would work.
With a groaning heave the Ephyra began expanding in midair. Soon she outgrew her crate,
splitting it apart and sending it crashing to the sea. The Tammerland followed suit and also started
growing, splintering its wooden crate into matchsticks. As the crate bits fell away, Wigg watched
the craft do its amazing work.
Each ship agonizingly lengthened and grew taller, her spars, hull, sails, and masts groaning in
exquisite pain like tortured souls being stretched on dungeon racks. On and on the spell went,
continuing to enlarge the vessels until they regained their original size. Their huge bulk soon
overshadowed the beach, the effect so mesmerizing that some of the desperate fighters paused
for a moment to gawk up in abject wonder.
Although the ships had been enlarged, Jessamay dangled precariously some one hundred
meters below Wigg, and the First Wizard’s plan was unraveling fast. Jessamay was to have
empowered the Ephyra and kept her aloft while Wigg did the same with the Tammerland. But
Wigg was still dazed, and the strain of simultaneously holding Jessamay and enacting the One’s
spell had weakened him far too much for him to empower both ships.
He stole a few precious moments to look down at the battle. Even now, neither side had gained
the upper hand. Explosive azure bolts streaked here and there among the fighting, but from so
high up he couldn’t tell who was casting them. Nor could he learn whether Tristan or any of the
other Conclave members had been killed. Knowing that there was little he could do to change the
outcome, he concentrated what remained of his energy on saving Jessamay and the two Black
Ships.
Just then the Ones’ spell ended, leaving Wigg’s rapidly dwindling gifts the only way to keep the
ships airborne. To his horror, the massive vessels began plummeting toward the sea, listing
crazily as they fell. With a monumental effort he empowered the Tammerland on her way down,
holding her steady in the air while she righted herself. With his other hand he lifted the warp
holding Jessamay, then moved her toward the Tammerland and let her fall onto the ship’s bow
deck. But he had been too late to save the Ephyra. As he watched her plummet toward the Azure
Sea, he felt his heart rend in two.
I beg the Afterlife, he thought. What have I done?
Finally regaining consciousness, Khristos gathered himself up from the sandy beach to see that
many of his vipers had surrounded him and were staving off the vicious Minions who wanted him
dead. He quickly levitated into the air above the fray, then pointed his silver staff at the cluster of
warriors ringing the vipers.
Khristos’ azure bolt launched straight into the warriors’ midst, sending blood, armor, and body
parts flying. Landing in a blood-soaked clearing a few meters away, Khristos looked up just in time
to see one massive Black Ship hovering in the sky and the other plummeting crazily toward the
sea.
With a mighty crash the Ephyra hit the waves, sending a plume of water high into the air. She
bounced, then crashed violently down again into the ocean. As the seawater fell around her,
Khristos strained his eyes, hoping that the ship had been smashed into kindling. When the scene
cleared, he raised his fists and shook them at the sky.
The Ephyra had survived.
He watched transfixed as the Black Ship heeled over and nearly cap-sized. To his chagrin, she
finally righted, her rigging swinging violently to and fro as she settled down. Many of her spars
were broken and one of her masts lay across the main deck, but she looked otherwise intact.
Casting safety to the winds, Khristos cursed and ran toward the shoreline. Again raising his silver
staff, he pointed it at the stricken ship’s bow. If he couldn’t destroy both ships, he would at least try
to send one of the black bastards to the bottom.
But just as he raised his staff, a figure lunged across his path, blocking his view. Khristos snarled
and was about to sidestep the fighter when he saw the pair of dark blue eyes boring into his and
sensed the stranger’s supreme blood quality.
The Jin’Sai.
As the battle whirled around them, for a moment the two enemies glared at one another. Then
Khristos screamed and pointed his staff at Tristan’s chest.
With the imminent threat washing over his senses, Tristan’s blood tingled with yet greater
strength and his sword blade suddenly glowed with a bright azure hue. This had happened only
once before, during the climactic battle to take the Recluse. But there was no time to think. With
Aeolus’ warnings again ringing in his ears, Tristan widened his stance and stood his ground.
This second bolt Khristos sent at Tristan was again a narrow one, designed to cut the Jin’Sai in
half. Tristan raised his sword with blinding speed. As the searing bolt struck his dreggan blade, its
power was immediately reflected back toward Khristos. Had the wizard’s reflexes not been so
fast, it would surely have killed him.
Khristos wheeled but the bolt struck his right shoulder, causing him to drop his staff. Tristan
lunged forward and kicked the craft weapon far across the sand. Weakened with shock and falling
to his knees, Khristos again tried sending a bolt Tristan’s way, this time from his fingertips. But
the bolt fizzled halfway to its target and crashed into the beach, sending charred sand high into
the air. As the sandy cloud cleared, Tristan raised his dreggan high and charged in for the kill.
But again the wizard was too fast. Summoning his last bit of power, Khristos levitated from the
sand and soared away to seek protection among his many vipers. As he left the ground, Tristan
swung his blade at him, but it fell short.
Enraged, Tristan tossed his sword into his left hand, then reached behind his right shoulder to grip
a throwing knife and let it fly. The silver dirk cartwheeled over and over, its double-sided blade a
whirling blur.
Seeing the knife coming, Khristos twisted in midair, causing the blade to miss his heart. But he
hadn’t been fast enough to avoid it altogether, and the dirk buried itself in the same shoulder that
had been struck by his returning bolt. Screaming in agony, he pulled the knife from his shoulder,
then crossed the sand and landed amid another group of battling vipers. Hissing and drooling, the
hideous things quickly surrounded their beloved master and defended him with their lives.
Khristos could no longer be seen, but Tristan knew where to find him. The Jin’Sai was about to
charge across the bloody sand and tear into the group of vipers when he felt a strong hand grip
the back of his left shoulder. Knowing that he was being attacked by another viper, he had no
choice but to forget Khristos and whirl around.
Reaching across his chest with his right hand and raising his bloody sword high with his left, he
grasped the enemy’s wrist and swiveled left. As he came around he found himself staring into a
familiar face.
There stood Ox, bloodied and exhausted. Ox immediately shouted out an order, and he and
Tristan were quickly surrounded by more Minion warriors to keep yet another throng of advancing
Blood Vipers from reaching them. The massive Ox gave Tristan a desperate look.
“Wigg say you must come now!” he shouted above the fighting. “Black Ships safe but we losing
fight! Wigg say hurry! Must cross blue sea!”
That wasn’t what Tristan wanted to hear. Instead of sailing away, he wanted to kill the unknown
Vagaries wizard if it was the last thing he ever did. Then Ox grabbed Tristan by the shoulders and
roughly spun him around to face the rocky wall on the other side of the beach.
“Look, Jin’Sai!” Ox screamed. What Tristan saw sent icewater pouring through his veins.
The sand between him and the rock wall was covered with the dead and the dying, blood, and
body parts from both sides. The casualties seemed to be roughly equally divided between Minions
and vipers, but in the continuing mêlée Tristan couldn’t be sure. Then he looked to the rock wall,
and he knew.
Thousands more vipers still poured from hundreds of tunnels, threatening to engulf the Minions
once and for all. But no more fresh warriors were jumping to the beach to confront them. The
tunnel floor from which the warriors had exited dripped blood down the rock wall, and vipers were
slithering inside it to look for wounded stragglers. Some of the Minions still struggling on the beach
had taken to the air to hack their dreggans downward on the vipers. Even so, it was clear that the
odds were turning against them. Tristan knew that without an order to retreat, his forces would
fight and die to the last. He swung around to look into Ox’s pleading eyes.
“Wigg say we must go now!” Ox shouted. “There be too many vipers! He say if we stay, all
warriors die!”
“Where are the other Conclave members?” Tristan shouted. “Are any dead?”
“Ox not know!” the warrior shouted back. “But we must go!”
“Have all our warriors exited the tunnel?” the prince shouted. “I refuse to leave anyone behind!”
“Only warriors in tunnel be dead ones!” Ox answered. “I be last one out! Please, Jin’Sai! We must
go now!”
Finally surrendering to the desperate situation, Tristan angrily put aside his desire to continue the
fight.
“Blow the retreat!” he shouted.
With a relieved look on his face, Ox quickly reached for his bugle. He sounded the retreat call
twice, then scooped Tristan up in his beefy arms and took to the air. On hearing the bugle and
seeing their Jin’Sai leave the beach, the surviving warriors also took flight, many of them carrying
wounded comrades in their arms. As the warriors soared away, the thousands of vipers slithered
toward the shoreline, waving their arms and hissing loudly in celebration of their bloody victory.
Tristan looked out to sea to find the Tammerland and the Ephyra sitting atop the waves about one
hundred yards from shore, each twinkling brightly with subtle matter. One of the Ephyra’s masts
and some of her spars had come down, but Tristan was sailor enough to know that she could be
repaired. And then to Tristan’s amazement this subterranean world began to change.
It didn’t start slowly, or with prior warning. Instead, its coming was sudden and earsplitting.
Because Tristan was being carried in Ox’s strong arms, he could do nothing but watch in horrified
wonder.
The Azure Sea started to churn, and great steaming geysers exploded from its depths to launch
hundreds of yards into the air. Tristan couldn’t believe what he saw next, but the irrefutable proof
lay directly before him, bewildering his senses. The Azure Sea was literally boiling.
Suddenly worried for his fleet, he snapped his head around to see another geyser erupt just off
the Ephyra’s port bow, sending the great ship dangerously rocking atop the waves. Nearly
capsizing, she listed hard before righting.
Then Tristan heard terrible screaming, and he saw some Minion crewmen being tossed from the
Ephyra’s pitching deck toward the boiling sea. The quickest snapped open their wings and took
flight just before reaching the superheated water. But some could not and they hit the boiling
waves, the sea immediately overcoming them, and they perished on the spot. Tristan watched in
horror as their scalded bodies and limp wings bobbed atop the boiling sea, some of them
bumping against the Ephyra’s hull.
As yet more geysers and superheated steam exploded into the air, Tristan soon doubted that he
and Ox would reach the Tammerland alive. As the sea birthed one geyser after the next, the rising
steam had become so thick that Tristan could barely see his hands before his face, to say
nothing of the Black Ships. Tristan suspected that Ox was straying off course, but turning around
to fly back to the beach and its thousands of swarming vipers was unthinkable. And so they
pressed on, the air becoming hotter and deadlier by the moment.
As he wondered how many loyal warriors had survived the beach only to be boiled alive in the sky
and on the sea, Tristan’s stomach turned over. Soon the smell of cooked flesh reached his
nostrils to confirm his fears. Then he heard more horrible screaming and saw hundreds of Minion
corpses, their dark silhouettes barley visible in the fog, tumbling downward and splashing into the
sea.
“Higher, Ox!” Tristan screamed, desperately hoping that the heat would dissipate with more
altitude. “You must take us higher!”
Straining with everything he had, Ox angled upward and his strong wings started to climb.
Tristan’s skin burned and there was so much hot water running into his eyes that he could hardly
see. He knew that unless Ox soon climbed out of the steamy fog, the end would be near for them,
too.
Just then Ox broke through the rising water vapor to find clear air. Desperately wiping the water
from his face and eyes, Tristan ordered Ox to fly in a circle and search for the ships.
Soon the terrible geysers stopped, and the water vapor began to dissipate. The prince looked
down to see the azure waves littered with bobbing Minion corpses, sometimes grouping like tiny
dark islands adrift on a sea of death. Then through a break in the parting clouds Tristan saw the
Tammerland. He pointed to the ship and Ox immediately understood. Diving through the rent in
the superheated fog, they plummeted toward the flagship.
As they neared the Tammerland, Tristan was relieved to see most of the heated fog diffusing and
some of the Conclave members gathered on the bow deck. The ship was covered with hot
seawater, its main deck still steaming in the gradually lessening heat. Ox set Tristan down atop
the slick deck and the Jin’Sai immediately ran over to where Wigg stood at the starboard gunwale.
“What’s our situation?” Tristan demanded.
When the First Wizard turned around he looked hunched and frail. He stared at Tristan without
seeing him, his aquamarine eyes glassy and unfocused. Tears streamed down his cheeks.
“I should have known,” he said faintly. “Jessamay and I knew that it felt like cloaked blood…so
many warriors dead, Jessamay hurt, and it’s all my fault…how could I have been so blind…then
the geysers came…so many more died…the water is full of bodies…”
Tristan grabbed the wizard by the shoulders and shook him roughly.
“Wigg!” he shouted. “Take hold of yourself! I must know our situation!”
With Tristan’s commanding voice ringing in his ears, the First Wizard seemed to partly regain his
focus. His skin, hair, and robe were steaming and soaked through, telling Tristan that the wizard
had nearly been killed. He collected himself, then he wiped the tears from his face.
“We have lost many warriors,” he said, “not just to the vipers but also to the terrible geysers. But
the geysers have stopped, and it seems that the man-serpents will not swim into the superheated
sea. Aside from Jessamay, the other Conclave members were not badly hurt.”
Tristan let go of Wigg and he took a quick look around.
Jessamay lay unconscious atop a Minion stretcher, being tended to by anxious warrior-healers.
She was scalded and soaked, and her injuries appeared severe. Parts of her body could be seen
here and there through ragged burn holes in her drenched doublet, boots, and breeches.
Tyranny stood nearby with an open wine bottle in one hand and a smoldering cigarillo dangling
between her lips. She too was soaked, her dark hair matted. Her sword, its hilt stained with viper
blood, lay sheathed on her hip. She said nothing as she looked into Tristan’s eyes, then lifted the
bottle to take another long slug. Her left hand was bleeding, but she ignored it; viper blood covered
much of her clothing. Scars stood behind her, his torso and trousers also smeared with viper
blood and offal.
Tristan turned back to face Wigg. As he did so, he saw thousands of warriors winging their way
back to the Black Ships. Many were so tired and injured that they were crash-landing onto the
decks.
“What caused the geysers?” the Jin’Sai shouted.
The First Wizard drunkenly shook his head. “I don’t know,” he answered. “I’ve never seen their
like. Perhaps the release of the subtle matter caused them…”
“Where are Phoebe and Astrid?” Tristan demanded.
“They’re here aboard the Tammerland, awaiting further orders,” Wigg answered weakly. “They
are exhausted but unhurt. We cannot fly the ships out of here, Tristan. We are too exhausted, and
Jessamay is unconscious.” Then Wigg finally managed a short smile. “But the wind is good,” he
added.
Heartened that all the Conclave members had survived, Tristan returned Wigg’s smile, then
affectionately placed one hand atop the wizard’s shoulder.
“You did the right thing by sending Ox to me,” he said. “Had we not retreated when we did, we
might have lost everyone.”
Tristan turned to look across the waves. The sea had calmed and the fog was gone, but the water
still steamed. Thousands of Blood Vipers still congregated at the shoreline, hissing and writhing
about each other in an orgy of victory. The sight incensed Tristan, enticing him to return to the
bloody beach and kill them all. He turned to again look at Wigg.
“Those monsters are under the control of a hideous-looking Vagaries wizard,” he said. “He seems
to have been morphed by the craft for some reason. I had two chances to kill him but I failed.”
Wigg nodded. “Khristos,” he said.
“You know him?” Tristan asked.
Wigg nodded. “He is a dark part of my past—the past that I foolishly thought I had forever left
behind. But even now Failee’s deeds continue to rear their ugly heads.” Tired and shaking, Wigg
looked at Tristan with worried eyes.
“Khristos is a powerful Vagaries wizard,” he said, his eyes going glassy again. “He must be dealt
with decisively…it seems that the craft has changed his appearance, but I recognized him just the
same…Shailiha must be told about…”
Just then Wigg’s aquamarine eyes rolled back and he fainted away. Tristan caught him and
handed him over to Ox. The huge warrior lifted Wigg into both arms as though he weighed
nothing.
No sooner had Ox taken up Wigg than another unsettling sound tore through the cavern. Tristan
wheeled around, looking and listening. This time the noise was different. Not only was the sea
roiling again, but the entire subterranean cavern was shaking violently, and the rumbling sound
grew louder by the second.
On and on the terrible rumbling came, causing the swelling waves to crash against the ships’
gunwales and once again put them in danger of capsizing. Tristan lost his footing on the slick
deck, and only by grabbing some rigging did he keep from tumbling overboard into the deadly sea.
Tristan looked across the deck. “Tyranny!” he shouted.
The privateer and her first mate were already struggling to reach him, but the going was hard.
Without warning another terrifying manifestation of the craft appeared.
On either side of the ships, two giant dark walls started rising from the depths. They nearly
scraped the ships’ sides as they came roaring upward. Tristan, Tyranny, and Ox could only stand
and watch, bewitched by what they saw.
The craggy rock walls rose straight up past the ships, thundering so loudly that Tristan thought his
eardrums might burst. Their flat tops stretching for endless leagues, higher and higher they rose
until they neared the ceiling, thousands of yards above. On reaching the ceiling, their flat tops
ground agonizingly against the radiance stones. Tons of rock debris came crashing down into the
sea, narrowly missing the ships and sending plumes of water high into the air. Then everything
went deathly still.
Tyranny and Scars carefully made their way across the slick deck to stand beside Tristan. At first
not one of them could speak, stunned as they were by the amazing sight.
The two Black Ships lay trapped in a narrow channel of aquamarine water that stretched away
into infinity. The black rock walls loomed up from the channel on either side like dark giants
waiting to crush the vessels between them. Sharp and forbidding, they seemed to stretch away
forever on either side of the slim waterway.
As the channel water calmed and slapped gently against the ship’s sides, Tristan collected his
senses and looked around. Ahead could be seen only the limitless expanse of the tunnel-like
channel. Behind them lay the viper-infested beach. The ceiling radiance stones lying trapped
between the opposing rock walls provided bright, constant light.
As the last of the rubble broke free and tumbled into the channel, the rock walls settled and the
wind calmed. Then, as if some great pair of protective hands had just reached down from the
Afterlife to grasp them, the two ships stopped drifting atop the water and hauntingly held their
positions, well clear of the deadly walls. The sensation was eerie, unnatural.
Tyranny turned to stare at Tristan, dumbfounded. “What just happened here?” she breathed.
Tristan shook his head. “I am as much at a loss as you,” he answered softly, still awed by what
he saw. Trying to focus his thoughts on the ships, he finally turned and looked at Tyranny.
“But whatever else has just occurred, the mystics are too exhausted to pilot the ships,” he said. “If
we are to leave here, we must sail atop the waves. Are the ships seaworthy?”
Her hands shaking, Tyranny removed the cigarillo from between her lips and ground it beneath the
sole of her boot. She tousled her wet hair, thinking.
“The Tammerland is,” she answered. “The Ephyra can probably also sail, but her fallen
mainmast, spars, and sails must eventually be repaired. She’ll be slower without them, but our
Minion shipwrights can repair them as we go. Either way, this discussion is meaningless,
because there is no wind. Nor can I understand why the ships don’t drift. The craft must have
done all this…” she added softly, her voice trailing away.
Taking another slug of wine, she turned to look back at the shoreline and its thousands of jubilant
vipers. “Even so, we must somehow get away from here as quickly as possible,” she said. “I saw
that disfigured bastard at work and I don’t want to suffer any more of his tricks. We must find a
way to move these ships.”
Tristan nodded and looked at Ox. “I want a Minion casualty report as soon as possible,” he
ordered. “Have Wigg and Jessamay taken below to their quarters and see that they’re looked after
by warrior-healers. I also want a report on their condition as soon as I can get it. And have Astrid
and Phoebe also tend to Wigg and Jessamay—their healing gifts will be useful. If they are not too
tired, send the Night Witches out on staggered patrols down the length of this channel. I want to
know what lies ahead of us.”
Ox snapped his boot heels together smartly. “I live to serve,” he said. He turned and hurried away,
the First Wizard’s arms and legs dangling toward the steaming deck as Ox bore him belowdecks.
Tristan turned back to look at Scars. “You will serve as the Ephyra’s captain until our mystics can
empower the ships through the sky. Make arrangements for a warrior to fly you there right away.”
He then turned to look again at the bloody shoreline. “We must somehow find a way to leave
here,” he said. “Something tells me that we haven’t seen the last of that Vagaries bastard.”
As Tyranny walked up beside him she sighed and tousled her hair again, causing Tristan to raise
an eyebrow. He knew that look—it always brought bad news. “If there’s something else on your
mind, you’d best tell me right now,” he said sternly.
“I’m sorry to report that our instruments don’t work here,” Tyranny said. “They just spin crazily, as
though they are being affected by the craft. Even the enchanted one that Shailiha and I used to
find our way to the Citadel won’t function properly.”
After everything else that had happened, Tristan wasn’t surprised. “What about the sextant?” he
asked.
Tyranny shook her head. “We should have realized back in Tammerland that our instruments
might be useless on the Azure Sea. There is no sky here, Tristan—only radiance stones, and
they show no discernible pattern. Even Faegan’s enchanted sextant needs changing points of
reference to confirm our position. Even if we escape this channel we can navigate only by line of
sight. I don’t like it any better than you, but there it is.”
“Then line of sight it is,” he answered.
Tristan turned to look down the strange channel. The air was motionless, ensuring that the ships
would be going nowhere. Moreover, the twin walls that hemmed them in rose straight up and
seemed impossible to land on.
Just then a strong offshore wind freshened, and with it the waves became restless. Whatever
force had been holding the ships in place suddenly set them free, allowing them to drift across the
waves. Recognizing the coming danger, Tristan quickly turned to look at Tyranny and Scars.
“Get the sails up so that we can maneuver, or we’ll crash into the walls!” he shouted. “Take the
only course available to us—straight down the channel while the wind remains astern! If it
changes direction it might blow us back to the beach!” Wanting to use Tyranny’s spyglass,
Tristan quickly relieved her of it before sending her on her way.
Tyranny immediately ran to carry out the orders while a warrior picked Scars up and flew him over
to the other ship. As the Minions hurried to unfurl the Tammerland’s sails, Tristan held his breath
as he watched her drift ever closer to one of the deadly rock walls. Then her sails caught the
breeze and she heeled over at the last moment, missing the rock wall by only yards. With Scars
finally taking control of the Ephyra’s wheel and her sails starting to appear, she too narrowly
avoided the other wall, then heeled over and began following.
Only once the great vessels were finally sailing down the mysterious channel and away from the
bloody beach did Tristan’s frayed nerves begin to settle down. Finally alone with his thoughts, he
started the long walk toward the Tammerland’s stern. As he passed by wounded and exhausted
warriors they attempted to stand and pay their respects, but many simply could not. Giving them
reassuring smiles, he walked on.
On reaching the stern deck he stood against the curved gunwale and looked toward the bloody
shore. Thousands of vipers still milled there in joyful celebration.
They think they’ve scored a victory, Tristan thought. And in some ways perhaps they have. Many
warriors died, but in the end we gave as good as we got, and the subtle matter and the Black
Ships were spared. For those things we can be truly thankful. But what caused this strange
channel, and where will it lead us?
Then he saw a dark speck on the beach. Raising the scope to one eye, he twisted its cylinders,
bringing the faraway scene into focus.
Khristos stood on the shore watching the Black Ships make their escape. The right shoulder of
the wizard’s robe was bloodied and partly burned away. The Jin’Sai smiled at that.
Tristan already knew why Khristos had led his vipers into the caves. The Pon Q’tar had ordered
him to do so in an attempt to kill him and the Conclave and to destroy the subtle matter and the
Black Ships.
He grimaced as he realized that this probably also meant that the Pon Q’tar was watching
Shailiha, causing his worry for her to grow. Her task of destroying Khristos and his servants would
not be an easy one, and he must use his medallion as soon as possible to inform her of the
danger. But many unanswered questions remained about Khristos and the Blood
Vipers—questions that only Tristan’s mystics might answer. As soon as Wigg was strong
enough, Tristan would press him for details.
Tristan raised the glass once more to the retreating shoreline. Khristos still stood there, silver
staff in hand, angrily watching his prizes slip away. Despite the day’s horrific events, the Jin’Sai
remained optimistic. All his Conclave members were alive and his ships were finally on their way,
despite the strange arrival of the rock walls and the narrow channel they created. As he watched
Khristos’ dark form recede from view, he decisively closed the scope cylinders.
Your Pon Q’tar masters will not be happy to hear of your failure to destroy my expedition,
Khristos, he thought. But don’t worry.
The Afterlife willing, we’ll be back.

CHAPTER XXIX
“WE CAN AFFORD NO MORE FAILURES, GRACCHUS!” BENEDIK Pryam shouted.
The incensed cleric could scarcely control his emotions. He and the others could see no end to
the troubles this latest defeat might cause. Rising from his seat, he started anxiously pacing the
room.
“You told us that the Jin’Sai would be stopped in the Caves!” he went on, venting his fury. “Now
you bring us word that Tristan, part of his Conclave, and two Minion phalanxes sail the Azure Sea
in his Black Ships! Moreover, the sea walls have risen! Surely we needn’t remind you of this
campaign’s importance—the same campaign that you said would bring an end to all our troubles!
Who knows what might happen should the Jin’Sai reach Shashida! Tristan and his twin sister
must be destroyed once and for all!”
Pausing for a moment, Benedik stopped pacing and glared angrily into Gracchus’ eyes.
“The state of our treasury is such that this campaign must succeed!” he added, his tone deadly
serious. “We waited for aeons for the Blood Royal to be born, just as the current mystics living on
the world’s other side waited for their reigning Jin’Sai. I also needn’t remind you that despite their
lesser prowess in the craft, Tristan’s mystics are not so different from us. Vespasian is perfect for
our needs, and his like might never be seen again. But the same can be said for Shashida and
the Jin’Sai! Admittedly, the depleted state of the treasury and the Blood Royal’s coming of age are
unfortunate coincidences. Even so, our course has been set. Our primary concern was once the
taking of the Shashidan mines, not the killing of the reigning Jin’Sai. But with every step that brings
Tristan closer to Shashida, we are no longer certain which struggle is more important!”
Gracchus fumed as he watched Benedik pace and rant. How could they possibly doubt him? he
asked himself. He was the most learned and powerful of them all. Had it not been he who
launched the successful revolt against Shashida, ensuring that the cause of the Vagaries would
survive? Had he not succeeded those many centuries ago, the hated Shashidan Vigors
worshippers would still rule all the land west of the Tolenkas. Their pompous self-righteousness
would to this very day stifle the craft’s admittedly more chaotic but infinitely more appealing
opposite side, refusing to allow it to flower. The revolution he brought forth had been
unprecedented, earth-shattering. Rustannica owed its very existence to him, and no one here
could deny that. Characteristic of his vaunted ego, he considered the failure to stop Tristan a
temporary setback rather than an outright defeat. But of even greater import was Gracchus’ other
plan—the one that involved destroying Shailiha. And this time he would not fail.
The camouflaged tent in which the Pon Q’tar convened sat far away from the main body of
Vespasian’s war camp. Like the Oraculum Tempitatum, it too was shrouded in invisibility. This
was not a full meeting of the Suffragat, nor was it meant to be. Only the twelve clerics were
present, and by meeting in secret this way they were breaking one of Rustannica’s highest laws.
Called the Vetare Secretum, the Law Prohibiting Secrecy, it forbade the Pon Q’tar, the Tribunes,
or the Priory to meet in secret for the purpose of conspiring. The penalty for violating the law was
death. Proposed more than ten centuries ago by an emperor named Polydorus, the law was
quickly passed.
Like Vespasian, Polydorus had become suspicious of the Pon Q’tar. Also like Vespasian,
Polydorus had been greatly admired by the military, birthing like-minded concerns of eroding
influence among the paranoid clerics. Like many ad hoc laws formed by struggling governments,
the Vetare Secretum was ratified more out of personal need to retain power than from an altruistic
desire to help the nation.
Truth be known, the scheming Pon Q’tar had violated the law from the start, despite the harsh
punishment they would suffer should they be discovered. Given Vespasian’s powerful command
of the craft and his close ties to the Legionary Tribunes, violating the Vetare Secretum under his
rule was far riskier than during the reigns of previous, weaker emperors.
Because they were the most experienced craft practitioners in all the land, the Pon Q’tar were
immensely powerful, to be sure. But even they realized that should they be caught violating Vetare
Secretum, with a snap of his fingers Vespasian could command the military to execute them all,
and do so lawfully. If the Pon Q’tar chose to fight, the ensuing battle would be monumental. But in
the end the military wing would triumph because of their overwhelming numbers. And so the
future of the imperial monarchy always tilted on a strange fulcrum that was the reigning emperor,
weighted on one side by the Pon Q’tar mystics’ secret schemes and on the other by the military’s
overwhelming might.
The war tent in which the Pon Q’tar met this night was uncharacteristically small and
conspicuously missing the elaborate trappings usually accompanying the clerics’ lofty stations.
They sat on simple wooden stools, and a single oil lamp hung from the rafters. The tent’s canvas
sides and top were dyed black to match the night that surrounded them, should for some reason
the craft cloak be broken.
Each member had traded his or her white and burgundy robe for a drab one, in case they should
be found conspiring in the night and need to escape quickly. But that likelihood was not great, for
not only was the tent shrouded by the craft, but the clerics’ words were enchanted to travel no
farther than the canvas sides and roof that entrapped them. Even so, far greater risk prevailed in
this canvas house afield than in Ellistium. There such traitorous meetings could be held in
hundreds of secret places, safely contained by far sturdier walls and far from prying eyes, roving
centurions, and eavesdropping ears.
Gracchus had communed with Khristos only hours ago. When he reached out to touch the Viper
Lord’s mind he had desperately hoped that the Jin’Sai was dead, his ships burned, and his
Conclave and Minions killed to the last. But then Khristos told him the bitter truth.
The news had been far worse than Gracchus had anticipated, but even so he would tell the Pon
Q’tar the unvarnished facts. Despite how easily he might betray and manipulate Vespasian,
Persephone, the Tribunes, and the Priory, he was always honest with his fellow clerics. Seated
before them in much the same way that Vespasian presided over the Suffragat in the Rectoris
Aedifficium, Gracchus suddenly felt naked and alone as he endured their harsh stares.
Even so, he refused to be intimidated. Rising from his seat, he grasped the shoulder folds of his
robe in one hand and looked Benedik squarely in the eyes.
“You overstate the threat, my friend,” Gracchus answered. “While the best strategy was to stop
the Jin’Sai in the Caves, he and his forces remain a long way from Shashida. Just as we have the
Borderlands, the Ones have their Azure Sea. Moreover, they cannot be sure whether their long
awaited Jin’Sai is truly sailing those waters, because their seer is no more adept at viewing what
happens in the caves than is our Oraculum. Simply put, the dangers of the Azure Sea will
conspire against the Jin’Sai just as if we were crossing rather than he. He has but one course
available to him. He will not survive the journey—of that we can be sure.”
Another cleric rose from her seat to address Gracchus. Lowering the hood of her robe, she
showed herself to be Cynthia Flavanius, one of the Pon Q’tar’s most powerful craft practitioners.
As he looked at her, Gracchus felt a pang go through his heart, just as he always did when he
found himself in her presence.
More than any other cleric, Cynthia Flavanius had supported Gracchus during the dark, early days
when Rustannica split from Shashida. Her counsel had been invaluable, her allegiance to the
Vagaries unshakable. She had fought beside him, given him hope, and later shared his bed.
As the centuries passed, Rustannica developed into a powerful nation and the capital city of
Ellistium became secure from attack. The Pon Q’tar was formed, and Gracchus and Cynthia
became members. Not long after, they were married. Their only child, a son named Ajax, soon
followed.
Because of the high quality of his fully endowed blood and the prominent positions of his parents
in the Rustannican hierarchy, Ajax seemed destined for great things. Some said that he would
become emperor one day, despite the many misgivings voiced by the other factions of the
Suffragat that the direct descendants of serving members should never rule the nation. Unlike
now, during those early days there had been no law prohibiting nepotism.
But in his inimitable way Gracchus had anticipated those obstacles and soon plotted to overcome
them. When he came of age, Ajax would take military training and become a legionnaire,
Gracchus decided, and later a Tribune. If Ajax could garner enough support among his fellow
Tribunes, the anticipated vote in the Suffragat to declare him emperor would be far more assured.
But like any mother faced with the prospect of watching her son march off to pursue a military
career, Cynthia had her misgivings. She first asked, then pleaded, then finally demanded that
Gracchus alter the course he had set for their only child. But Gracchus would not be dissuaded,
nor would their young son, whose head soon became filled with tales of Rustannican military glory
and honor. When Ajax entered his training, then attained the rank of Tribune some years later,
Gracchus could not have been prouder. But Cynthia’s worried heart trembled even more for her
only child.
Knowing what was expected of him, Ajax understood that being an ordinary Tribune would not be
enough to achieve his father’s plan. To one day become emperor, Ajax must also become a
national hero. And so time after time he volunteered for the most hazardous duty, for only that
would secure his needed fame. With that duty came many successes and the growing loyalty
and admiration of his fellow Tribunes, some of whom were older than he and serving on the
Suffragat. His path seemed certain, and with his father’s guidance the once looming obstacles in
his way were easily devoured.
Then one day came the shattering news. As Gracchus read the scroll, his hands trembled and
his heart broke.
During a campaign to take some Shashidan high ground, Ajax had been killed. There hadn’t been
enough of his body left to send home, adding to Cynthia’s and Gracchus’ inability to properly
mourn. The shocking news sent Cynthia first into hysterics, then into grief, and finally into rage at
Gracchus for so cruelly manipulating their only child. Even Gracchus finally saw his mistake, but
by then it was too late. He extended an olive branch by offering to adopt a child, but Cynthia had
become too bitter, and her heart had fallen into too many pieces to be repaired. With her love for
Gracchus irreparably shattered, she petitioned for divorce.
Save for service in the legions, from the beginning of the Rustannican Empire women enjoyed the
same rights as men in all things. The right to petition for divorce was no different, and there was
no social stigma attached to it. Moreover, when a divorce was granted, the woman could demand
the return of her dowry, helping to ensure that she would have financial independence and not
become a burden to the state.
This was especially true of the krithian class, in which dowries could reach fantastic sums,
making divorce very expensive for the husband. Paying back a woman’s dowry was seen as a
matter of honor. Any husband who refused or could not do so was socially ostracized, and his
further advancement in Rustannican society remained unlikely until proper restitution was made.
Even then the stigma remained, and few such recalcitrants saw their fortunes improve. Cynthia’s
dowry had been huge, and its subsequent return from Gracchus’ coffers helped make her one of
the richest women in Rustannica. With such wealth added to her great command of the craft and
her membership in the Pon Q’tar, she was a force to reckon with.
Gracchus watched as Cynthia lowered the hood of her robe. To this day she took his breath
away, and he again felt his heart ache not only for the loss of his son, but for the loss of her love.
That had been many centuries ago, and neither of them had remarried.
Granted the time enchantments at the young age of forty-three, she looked as lovely now as she
did then. Her eyes were blue and wide-set; graceful eyebrows arched over them, lending them an
exotic look. A mass of dense blond curls reached to her shoulders. Her graceful jawline was firm
and strong, her lips full and inviting. Her form was seductive, its alluring shape only partly hidden
by the ill-fitting robe.
Because of her many obvious attributes, it was said that over the centuries hosts of suitors had
asked for her hand, but not one was chosen. It was also rumored that she had taken many lovers
in an attempt to dull her grief, but not even Gracchus knew for sure.
As he looked again into her lovely face he wondered what she might say. Would it be a further
condemnation of his failed plan? he wondered. Or would it be some other way to hurt him again
for his mistakes of so long ago?
“You are forgetting something, Gracchus,” she said. “You are right when you say that because
the Jin’Sai sails the Azure Sea, we can no longer take direct action against him. But there is
something more to this puzzle that you have avoided. I was wondering whether you might
address it, but since you haven’t, I feel the need to do so in your stead.”
Gracchus steeled himself against her next words, for he now knew what she would say.
“What of his blood?” she asked. “We have been told that his blood will open many locked doors
and remove many obstacles in his path, simply because of its majestic quality. As you know, this
information was gleaned long ago from more than one highly placed Shashidan mystic whom we
captured in battle and later tortured. The information was obtained many separate times over
several centuries. Its veracity is irrefutable.”
Pausing for a moment, Cynthia gazed deeply into Gracchus’ eyes. As she did, he found the loss
of her love far more defeating than anything else she might say.
“So tell us, Gracchus,” she said. “Might the Jin’Sai’s blood not guide him safely across the Azure
Sea? Despite your reassurances, is there still not cause for great concern?”
“Perhaps,” he answered. “But you know as well as I that the information gleaned from those
Shashidan mystics has never been tested. We have no way of knowing whether it is true. And
after all, every one of our ships and crews that tried to cross that sea was never heard from
again.”
A short smile crossed Cynthia’s lips. “In any event, because of your recent failures it seems we
will soon have our answer,” she said. “And if the answer is the wrong one, all our plans for
Vespasian might come to naught. You must judge the import of all that for yourself. I have already
formed my opinions, and I find them distressing. Of perhaps even greater concern is that you
promised Vespasian that the reigning Jin’Sai couldn’t possibly leave his side of the world. Should
that prove untrue, I for one would not wish to endure our emperor’s wrath. Your twisted creation
might yet turn on you.”
Still on his feet, Benedik turned to again glare at Gracchus. “Cynthia is right,” he said. “What say
you about all this?”
“I say that it doesn’t matter,” Gracchus announced, still refusing to be humbled. “We cannot know
what will become of the Jin’Sai. Thus it becomes pointless to worry about it. What will be will be. I
will deal with Vespasian should the need arise. For now I suggest we discuss something about
which we can take immediate action.”
“And what is that?” Aegaea Mithridates asked.
“The destruction of the Jin’Saiou,” Gracchus answered. “Never forget that she carries equal
importance. She must be dealt with while we still possess the means to do so. I know that the
hour is late, but you must hear my plan.”
“Very well,” Benedik answered.
As the single lamp burned and the night wore on, Gracchus outlined his scheme to destroy
Shailiha. In the end, even Cynthia Flavanius was impressed.

CHAPTER XXX
TRISTAN LEANED AGAINST THE TAMMERLAND ’S STERN gunwale watching the two Black
Ships bound across the azure waves. Tyranny captained the Tammerland while Scars skippered
the Ephyra. The wind was brisk and they were making good time. Then Tristan wondered about
that.
Trying to gauge the ships’ progress in this strange place was frustrating, for the only way to do so
was to watch the monolithic rock walls slip by on either side. One couldn’t estimate the rate of
travel by looking up at the millions of glowing radiance stones embedded into the massive channel
ceiling, for as Tyranny said, they showed no discernible pattern. Sailing this way was dangerous,
the craggy walls waiting to tear the ships apart should they drift from their courses and strike
them. To travel more safely, the Ephyra followed the Tammerland rather than sail beside her.
With the dark walls looming on either side, Tristan couldn’t escape the gnawing feeling that they
might be sailing straight into another trap.
He still had no answer as to why the dark walls had suddenly risen. They had not appeared the
first time he visited the Azure Sea, nor had they been present during the first part of the battle
against Khristos and the vipers. Only after Ox was ferrying Tristan toward the ships had the walls
thundered up from the depths to meet the glowing cavern ceiling. But they surely existed now, and
their overpowering presence disturbed him, for he could do little but watch the dark stone walls
move silently by, their surfaces forbidding and treacherous.
The channel down which the Tammerland and Ephyra sailed was uncomfortably narrow. Tristan
guessed it to be about one-eighth of a league wide. The riverlike channel trapped between the
walls often snaked back and forth, making it impossible to see what lay beyond. Night Witch
patrols had flown nearly to the point of no return, only to report that nothing laid ahead save for
more of the same. Trying to navigate such treacherous waters was something that no one aboard
had ever experienced.
Nerves were starting to fray, especially those of Tyranny and Scars. Their sure hands were
constantly needed on the ships’ wheels, and Tristan knew that the privateer and her first mate
grew more tired by the minute. Tristan guessed that when his mystics could sail the ships
through the air they would be less subject to the whims of the wind and the water and the going
would be safer. But he did not know when that might be, so until then they could only press on
atop the waves.
Four hours had passed since they set sail. Or at least that was what the ships’ hourglasses said.
But Tristan wondered whether even time could be confidently measured here. Not long ago he
and Tyranny had guessed that the sage-colored light emitted from the radiance stones might
never dim. If so, there would be no night, and that phenomenon would bring problems all its own.
Sleep patterns would be disrupted, forcing the Minions to rest belowdecks in rotating shifts.
Moreover, the great ships could not stop and weigh anchor, for although soundings had been
taken, the channel bottom was never found.
Still, some encouraging signs remained. A water sample taken from the channel revealed that it
was fresh, rather than salty, granting them an unlimited supply of drinking water. Even so, he
ordered that the azure channel water not be used for any purpose until his mystics had assessed
it.
Foodstuffs remained the other advantage, at least for now. Feeding everyone represented no
immediate problem, for the ships’ lower decks held enough provisions to last for several months.
Still, from what Tristan saw of this eerie place, there would be no chance to live off the land, and
when the food was gone, his expedition would starve. No creatures or vegetation clung to the
rocky walls or populated the azure water, nor had a single bird or insect been seen. Only the
warm, odorless wind, the forbidding rocky walls, and the mysterious radiance stones existed
here. Save for the usual noise made by busy Minion crew members, the only other sound was the
crashing of the waves as they split against the ship’s bows. The environment was eerie, soulless,
unsettling.
Closing his eyes for a moment, Tristan wearily ran his hands through his salt-and-pepper hair. He
was desperately tired, but the continually shining light made sleep elusive. His fatigue ran deeper
than just in his mind and his muscles, he knew. For some time now it had been seeping its way
deep into his soul.
He didn’t want to admit it, but the feeling could not be denied. The last few years of struggle had
taken their toll, forcing him to wonder how much longer he could keep trying to fulfill the task that
the late Envoys of Crysenium had explained to him during his first wondrous trip to the world’s
other side. For a long time his mystics assumed that his destiny meant combining the Vigors and
the Vagaries for the benefit of all mankind. But to his great surprise, the Envoys had said
otherwise.
Instead, Tristan was to finally bring an end to the War of Attrition, the ongoing battle raging
between Rustannica and Shashida. He would then unite the two nations and become their lone
ruler, ensuring that they never again went to war. But the Envoys were savagely murdered by
Rustannica’s Imperial Order before Tristan could learn how this great task might be
accomplished. And so he struggled on to reach Shashida and to find the many answers still
eluding him.
But it was more than just the uncertainty of it all, he knew. Since the return of the Coven of
Sorceresses four years ago he had known little besides death, war, and personal loss. He was
sick of killing and of seeing others killed, regardless of which side of the craft they served.
Nearly his entire family and the beloved Directorate of Wizards had died either by his hand or
because of his personal destiny. That was to say nothing of the thousands of Minion warriors who
had willingly perished while serving him, and the many enemies of the Vigors he had personally
killed. The numbers were too great to count, and as the tally grew, so did his sense of guilt for
leading so many souls ever deeper into his personal war.
But what else could he do? he wondered as he watched the rocky walls silently slide past. He
was the Jin’Sai. Like it or not, he had been born for this mission. His greatest hope was that if he
could stop the War of Attrition, the lives he might save could somehow justify the deaths of all the
others—a balancing of the Afterlife’s ledgers, if you will. But how many more would perish before
he might somehow end that terrible war?
And when they died, how would that alter his imaginary balance sheet of death? Whom else might
he lose in this struggle? Wigg, Shailiha, Faegan, Tyranny? Would he possess the strength, the
spirit, the will to—
“Pardon, Jin’Sai,” a familiar voice suddenly broke in. Tristan turned to see Ox standing there.
“Wigg and Jessamay conscious again,” he said. “They ask for meeting, and say all Conclave
members must come. They also want Scars and acolytes there.”
Tristan nodded, then thought for a moment. The only way that Tyranny and Scars could attend
would be to stop the vessels somehow, for he trusted no one else to sail them the traditional way
through these treacherous straits, and allowing them to drift was unthinkable. Because the
soundings had found no channel bottom, the ships could not be anchored.
“Return to Wigg and ask if he and Jessamay have regained enough strength to empower the
ships and hold them still in the channel,” he told Ox. “If so, tell them that we will come. Send a
messenger to the Ephyra to inform Scars. When the ships stop, have that messenger bring
Scars here. We will then furl both ship’s sails.”
“Yes, Jin’Sai,” Ox said.
As Ox went to confer with Wigg, Tristan walked up the Tammerland’s main deck to stand behind
Tyranny at the ship’s wheel. For a time he admiringly watched her thread the ship through the
strait as if through a swerving needle’s eye. She did more than simply react to the changing wind
and waves, he realized. She anticipated them, her marvelous seafaring skills a natural part of her
being.
Walking nearer, he gently touched her on one shoulder. Despite her demanding task she turned
and smiled warily at him before returning her sharp gaze to the ship’s bow.
“You might fancy yourself a pilot,” she said slyly. “But if you’ve come to relieve me, you can forget
it! You’d have us up on those rocks in minutes!”
Tristan let go a short laugh. “I don’t doubt it!” he answered. “Anyway, I’m not going to relieve
you—Wigg is. You and Scars could do with a rest.”
Tyranny nodded gratefully. Moments later the Tammerland stopped dead in the water and held
still in the center of the channel. No longer seeing the craggy walls slide dangerously by was a
welcome relief.
After tying off the ship’s wheel, Tyranny ordered the Minions to furl the Tammerland’s many sails,
lightening Wigg’s burden. Tristan looked astern to see that the Ephyra had also stopped and that
her warriors were scrambling up her masts. A female Minion could be seen flying back to the
flagship with Scars in her arms.
Tristan gestured toward the ship’s bow. “After you,” he said. Tyranny nodded. After stretching her
tired back muscles she led the way forward toward one of the many open deck hatches.
The air surrounding the Tammerland was warm and humid, making the crowded atmosphere
belowdecks even more uncomfortable. As he followed Tyranny down two gangways and along
the length of deck three, he took in all the sights and sounds common to a busy warship.
Stacked crates of food, water barrels, and arms lockers lay all about, making traversing the decks
difficult. Minion warriors were everywhere, busily going about their duties. As Tristan and Tyranny
walked by, they snapped to attention, then pressed their bodies up against the walls to allow their
superiors easier passage. Oil lamps enchanted to burn forever and without smoke lined the walls,
giving the hallways an eerie appearance.
Coming to the end of one hallway, Tyranny opened a door and walked through. Following her,
Tristan soon found himself in the Tammerland’s huge galley.
The place was a beehive of activity. There were so many warriors aboard that they were forced to
eat in round-the-clock shifts, and so the galley never shut down. Warriors constantly chopped,
stirred, cooked, and baked to provide enough food for their hungry brothers in arms. Tristan had
long enjoyed Minion fare, and the enticing smells soon got his stomach growling, reminding him of
how long it had been since he last ate.
At the far end of the galley Tyranny opened another door and they walked down another hallway.
More busy warriors saluted and made way for them. Finally Tyranny stopped before a mahogany
door on the hallway’s starboard side and double-knocked.
“Enter!” Wigg’s voice called out. Tyranny opened the door and she and Tristan walked into the
First Wizard’s private quarters.
Like the all the quarters assigned to Conclave members, Wigg’s private rooms were spacious
and attractive. Patterned rugs lay atop the hardwood floor and tall leaded glass windows swiveled
wide to catch the sea breeze along the starboard wall. A great four-poster bed stood in one corner
and a desk in the other, its top littered with parchments, texts, scrolls, and other tools of the craft.
Although all the windows were open, Wigg’s rooms seemed little cooler than the passageways
Tyranny and Tristan had just navigated. On the salon’s port side was another door leading to the
wizard’s private washroom. Tristan also noticed that the flat glass vial containing the remainder of
the subtle matter had been securely mounted onto the wall behind Wigg’s desk against the whims
of the waves and the shifting breezes. A large gilded oil lamp hung from the center of the ceiling
but remained unlit because of the bright light pouring through the many open windows.
Wigg sat gingerly in a chair on one side of the room while Jessamay lay on a sofa with her legs
propped up. Between them sat a low table, its marble top covered with plates of cheese, fresh
fruit, dark bread, and flagons of red wine. A rolled-up scroll lay there as well. Tristan noticed that
Wigg had replaced his seared robe with a fresh one, and in order not to aggravate her burns,
Jessamay had donned an oversized doublet and equally blousy breeches.
Wigg managed a smile as he beckoned Tristan and Tyranny into the room. Tristan walked to
Jessamay’s side, and as Tyranny followed she pulled up a chair for her and one for the prince.
After sitting down, Tristan gave Jessamay a concerned look.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
The Vigors sorceress nodded. “I am, but I’d be dead if Wigg hadn’t caught me in his warp. At first I
thought that I had broken my back, but luckily I didn’t. Even so, every muscle throbs. I can’t recall
anything after that until waking up in my quarters, but Wigg has kindly told me the tale. He has
also granted me a spell to control my pain, and another of accelerated healing to help with my
burns.”
The blond sorceress winced as she gingerly rearranged her burned legs, then gave Tristan a
meaningful look. “We were lucky, you know,” she added quietly. “Khristos is a very powerful
wizard, and his Blood Vipers are equally vicious. I know that we lost many warriors, but Wigg
says that we likely killed an equal number of the enemy.”
“So, like Wigg, you know who Khristos is?” Tristan asked.
Jessamay nodded, but the look on her face said that Wigg should be the one to explain.
Tristan nodded, then folded his arms across his chest and looked into Wigg’s aquamarine eyes.
“And you, old friend?” he asked. “How are you faring?”
Wigg’s face was scalded, and painful-looking blisters showed on his hands and forearms. Even
so, he seemed more energetic than did Jessamay.
“I’ll be all right,” he answered. “The important thing is that the subtle matter and the Black Ships
were saved. I’m sure that you will want to know about our losses—I have the report right here.”
As Wigg reached for the scroll lying on the tabletop, he winced, then decided that it wasn’t worth
the effort. Just as Tristan tried to help, the First Wizard called the craft and levitated the scroll into
the air, eluding Tristan’s grasp.
Wigg raised an eyebrow in the Jin’Sai’s direction. “I might be burned, but I’m not helpless, you
know,” he muttered. The scroll then unrolled in midair and Wigg started reading it aloud.
“Eight hundred thirty-seven male and female warriors were killed outright on the beach,” Wigg
said solemnly. “One thousand two hundred thirty were wounded, of whom about seven hundred
are expected to recover and fight another day. Another one hundred or so remain unaccounted
for. Ox informs me that those warriors who do not heal sufficiently or who lost limbs will be
restricted to duties that no longer include combat. So a full one-third of our fighting force has been
neutralized, even after the wounded return to duty.”
The news was even worse than Tristan feared. Taking a deep breath, he slumped in his chair and
laid back his weary head. Hearing Wigg read those numbers sadly reminded him of his imagined
death ledgers. Yet more marks for the debit page, he thought. Putting his thoughts aside, he
turned to Tyranny.
“What is the status of our ships?” he asked.
Just as the privateer was about to answer, another knock sounded on the cabin door. “Enter!”
Tristan called out.
The door swung open to reveal Scars, Astrid, and Phoebe. As Tristan beckoned them into the
room, Tyranny set out three more chairs.
Scars looked exhausted, a rarity for him. As usual he wore only his torn trousers. Astrid and
Phoebe also looked tired and drawn, and their red acolyte robes needed some serious scrubbing.
“Are you all right?” Tristan asked them at once.
Scars nodded. “I am well,” he said.
“As are we,” Astrid answered for the two sisters. “We are all lucky to be alive.”
Tristan nodded appreciatively as he looked at the two acolytes. Astrid was short and plump, with a
profusion of brunette ringlets. Phoebe was just the opposite—tall, with a willowy figure and
straight blond hair. Each sister had been handpicked by Adrian to empower the Black Ships, and
they had become very good at it. No one need tell Tristan how valuable these women would be in
the days ahead. Like Wigg’s and Jessamay’s fingertips, the sisters’ were darkly charred from
loosing bolt after bolt against Khristos’ forces. Tristan turned back to look at Tyranny.
“Your report?” he asked.
After pouring a cup of wine, the privateer sat back tiredly and crossed one long leg over the other.
“The Tammerland is seaworthy,” she answered, “which is a bloody miracle, given all that she’s
been through. I can’t speak for our sister ship, because I’ve been too busy keeping the
Tammerland off the rocks to go and take a look at her.”
Tyranny took a long slug of wine, then looked over at her gigantic first mate. “What say you,
Scars?” she asked. “Are you taking good care of my other boat?”
Tristan smiled. This wasn’t the first time he had heard her say that, nor was it likely to be the last.
From the beginning, Tyranny considered all four Black Ships to be her vessels. It was a sentiment
he didn’t try to discourage.
“Aside from her downed mast and spars she is fine, Captain,” Scars answered. “Some of her
sails were torn, but they’re being mended. As I’m sure you know, keeping her straight in this
damnable channel is a struggle. She’s slow and more than a little sluggish on the wheel because
of her reduced sail surface, but the mast and spars should be repaired soon. It’s a good thing that
we brought along spare timber. It takes up much space belowdecks, but it’s worth it. Because of
Sister Astrid and Sister Phoebe’s help, my Minion shipwrights say that we’ll have everything set
right in twelve more hours.”
“Good,” Tristan said. “We need to travel as fast as we can. We have much food and water
aboard, but it’s not limitless.”
Tristan looked back at Wigg. “When can you and Jessamay empower the ships?” he asked.
“We have discussed it and we believe that we can start tomorrow,” Wigg answered. “It will be
difficult for Jessamay to stand, so some sort of seat must be provided for her while she pilots the
Ephyra. When we tire, Astrid and Phoebe will take over. We will then establish regular shifts.”
“Good,” Tristan said. “Once we are airborne we should make better time. But it is nearly
impossible to gauge the rate of travel in this place. The Night Witches report that nothing lies
ahead except more of the same. I will keep sending them out, because this channel must have an
end somewhere. We can only hope that we reach it before we run out of supplies.”
Wigg nodded. “I know,” he answered. “But starvation was always a risk, wasn’t it?”
“And the azure water beneath us?” Tristan asked. “Have you analyzed it?”
“Such pursuits lie more within Faegan’s purview than mine,” Wigg answered, “but Jessamay and
I did what we could. The water seems to possess an energy all its own. Truth be told, I’ve never
seen anything like it. For now it should be used for no purpose whatsoever. We’ll keep trying to
learn more, but you must continue your wise prohibition. You should also know that there’s
something about the azure water that particularly disturbs us. It was a notion that we failed to
consider before we left home.”
Tristan’s expression darkened. “What is it?” he asked.
“We fear that the azure water might be adversely affecting the ship’s hulls,” Wigg said. “When the
Directorate built these vessels they enchanted them to withstand many things, but this azure
water was not one of them. Because the Black Ships were originally designed to sail the Sea of
Whispers, there was no need for such considerations.”
“But if we stay airborne most of the time, that shouldn’t matter,” Tyranny said.
“Not necessarily,” Jessamay replied.
“Why?” Tristan asked. “What Tyranny said seems logical enough.”
“True, but you two didn’t help build these ships,” Wigg answered. “If you had, you would know that
part of what keeps a ship’s hull waterproof is the swelling that its timbers incur when it is first set
atop the waves. The dry wood absorbs the water, locking the timbers tightly together. This effect
is normal, and the shipbuilding process wouldn’t be complete without it.”
“That’s true,” Tyranny replied. “But the Black Ships are hundreds of years old. After spending so
much time atop the Sea of Whispers, their hull timbers are the best seasoned I have ever seen.
I’m sure that they have drawn in all the moisture that they ever will. If you’re worrying about them
absorbing much azure water, I doubt that could happen.”
“You’re forgetting something, Captain,” Scars said quietly. “Wigg is right—we failed to consider it
before we left Tammerland.”
At first a perplexed expression crossed Tyranny’s face. Then she suddenly grasped Scar’s
meaning and her visage went ashen.
“I still don’t understand,” Tristan protested. “What is the threat?”
“We shrank the ships,” Wigg answered, “and the power that the subtle matter generated to
perform that task was immense, unlocking high degrees of heat. Also, the ships sat landlocked in
their cradles for days while Minion warriors loaded them with supplies. There can be no question
that the hulls dried to some degree. How much so, we might never know. But if the dried hull
timbers are absorbing azure water, the ships could be deteriorating as we speak. I’m sorry,
Tristan, but no one expected this. Even Faegan would be surprised.”
Sighing, Tristan sat back in his chair. “When will we know?” he asked.
“As soon as the ships can be flown,” Wigg answered. “When the hulls are lifted from the sea we
will send Minion shipwrights soaring down to examine them. Until then, there is only one sure way
to tell.”
“And what is that?” Tristan asked.
“If either ship starts to take on water and list,” Tyranny said softly. “But by then the end will already
be in sight. And as we already know, the channel seems bottomless.”
Like Tristan, Tyranny could hardly believe what she was hearing. Second only to her service on
the Conclave, these ships had become her life. To lose one on the high seas during battle where
the decisions and responsibilities were hers she could understand, even accept. But losing them
to some unexpected and insidious aspect of the craft seemed cowardly and honorless. Worse,
this was a foe that she didn’t know how to combat. She looked back at Wigg with angry eyes.
“Is there nothing we can do?” she asked.
Wigg pursed his lips, thinking. “We must get the ships airborne as soon as possible, then do
everything in our power to keep them free of the azure water. But the best solution for all of our
problems is to reach Shashida quickly.”
Tristan suddenly had a thought. “Please find some parchment, some ink, and a quill,” he asked
Phoebe.
Wigg raised an eyebrow. “What are you doing?” he asked.
“You’ll see,” Tristan answered.
“Very well,” Wigg answered. “Phoebe, you’ll find what you need at my desk.”
Phoebe went to Wigg’s desk and sat down. Soon she had collected what Tristan asked for.
“I’m ready,” she told him.
Tristan nodded. “I want you to take notes of this meeting,” he said. “Be concise, but also be sure
to include all the important points. Start with the battle against Khristos and then go on to our new
worry about the ships.”
“As you say,” Phoebe answered.
She dipped the quill into one of the ink bottles. Using the craft to speed her task, she started
writing about the recent battle and the fresh concern about the ship’s hulls, the point of her quill
noisily scratching across the page.
Jessamay shot Tristan a puzzled look. “Why do we need notes?” she asked.
“You’ll understand soon enough,” he answered. “Right now there are things I need to learn.” He
looked at Wigg again.
“I know how much it pains you to talk about Failee,” Tristan said. “But when I asked you about
Khristos earlier, you also mentioned her. Why was that?”
Before answering, Wigg caused his wine cup to levitate, then grasped it and took a long swallow.
The drink seemed to help prepare him for what he needed to say. Slowly rolling the cup between
his palms, he looked Tristan in the eyes.
“Khristos is an ancient Vagaries wizard,” he said. “He is quite powerful. The call of his left-leaning
blood enticed him to Failee’s cause. He soon became one of her best wizard-generals. But in the
end he was much more.”
“What was that?” Tristan asked.
Wigg sighed deeply. “Failee’s lover,” he answered softly.
“I’m sorry,” Tristan said. “I didn’t know. But the Sorceresses’ War ended more than three
centuries ago. Where has he been all that time? Why did he choose now to surface?”
After sipping some more wine, Wigg shook his head. “I have no idea,” he answered. “When the
war ended and Failee’s forces surrendered, Khristos was not among the captured. The
Directorate assumed he was killed. Seeing him on that bloody beach was one of the greatest
shocks of my life.”
“Did Blood Vipers serve Failee during the war?” Astrid asked.
“No,” Wigg answered. “Like all of you, I had never seen one until Tyranny brought the captured
one to the palace.”
“Khristos doesn’t look entirely human,” Tyranny offered. “He resembles the Blood Vipers at his
command. It’s ghastly. Was he always that way?”
Wigg shook his head. “When I knew him, he was as human as we. Something happened to him
in the meantime—something that I cannot explain. Clearly, his changed appearance has to do
with the Vagaries. Perhaps Faegan and Aeolus can answer that.”
“They also knew him?” Tristan asked.
“Yes,” Wigg answered. The First Wizard paused to take another sip of wine.
“Khristos was a well-known wizard in his day,” he added. “But what strange course his life took
after the war is a great puzzle. Even so, two things seem certain. After failing to stop us, he will
soon go after Shailiha.”
“And what is the other?” Phoebe asked.
“Khristos took his army into the Caves to try and stop us from reaching Shashida,” Wigg said.
“And I think I know who ordered him to do it.”
“So do I,” Tristan said. “It was the Pon Q’tar. They have found a way to commune with him. It’s the
only answer that fits. For some time now it seems that they have been watching us. How can this
be?”
Wigg rubbed his chin, thinking. “I don’t know,” he answered. “It’s all a great mystery.”
“Why did the rock walls suddenly rise?” Tristan asked.
“It might have to do with the sudden nearness of your blood,” Wigg answered. “Jessamay and I
have discussed it, but we can attain no greater insight about it than that.”
Phoebe suddenly looked up from her parchment. “There might be another reason,” she offered
from across the room.
Everyone turned to look her way. “What could that be?” Tristan asked.
As Phoebe put down her quill a thoughtful look came over her face. “The Ones tempted us to
come here by way of their subtle matter message,” she said, “telling us that we must cross the
Azure Sea. If that’s true, then the rock walls might exist for our benefit.”
Tyranny shook her head. “With all due respect, Sister, that can’t be true. Those walls are just
waiting out there to destroy these ships. They’re far more of a threat than a help, I assure you.”
Phoebe shook her head. “Not necessarily,” she said. “Don’t you see? At first, the Azure Sea
looked endless in every direction. Then the walls rose to create this channel.”
Wigg smiled. “Well done,” he said. “Well done indeed.”
“What is she talking about?” Scars asked.
“It’s all so clear now,” Wigg said. “Who knows in what direction we might have sailed had we had
our choice? Like Tyranny says, the compasses and sextants don’t work here. We might have
sailed in circles while using up all of our supplies. The coming of the channel ensured that only
one course was available to us. We were forced to take it, like it or not!”
“To Shashida?” Tristan asked.
“Still unknown,” Wigg said. “Unless you want to go back, we must keep going through the
channel.”
Tristan sat back in his chair. What Phoebe said made sense. But for now the time for talking was
over and another task needed his attention. He looked back at Phoebe.
“Are you finished with the notes?” he asked. “Make sure that you include mention of the Minion
losses.”
“Just a moment,” she answered, her hand still moving like lightning. “There,” she said a few
moments later.
“Good,” Tristan answered.
He walked to stand beside the desk. Reaching out, he took up a blank sheet of parchment, then
asked for Phoebe’s quill. After unrolling the parchment on the desk he loaded the quill with more
ink. The acolyte watched with curiosity as Tristan scrawled two short words onto the paper:

FIND FAEGAN

Taking up Phoebe’s notes, Tristan walked to the other side of the room, then placed the
parchments atop the meeting table.
“What in blazes are you doing?” Tyranny asked.
“Patience,” he answered.
Tristan took his gold medallion into his hands, then called forth one of his two forestallments. In
his mind’s eye he pictured two medallions side by side. Soon they merged into one. Tristan
opened his eyes to see the medallion hanging around his neck start glowing with the color of the
craft. He then turned it over.
At first he saw only the shiny golden obverse. Then an image slowly started swimming to its
surface to show Shailiha’s face smiling back at him. The scene’s outline was blurry, but it
seemed that she was in the Archives of the Redoubt.
Reaching out, he took up the parchment asking her to go and fetch Faegan and he held it before
the disk. But that wasn’t needed, for soon the crippled wizard’s face appeared alongside
Shailiha’s. Wasting no time, Tristan dropped the first parchment, then took up the one with
Phoebe’s notes and held it before the disk, knowing that if Faegan read them they would
immediately be committed to his gift of Consummate Recollection and never be forgotten.
As the moments passed, Wigg’s quarters became deathly still, and the once happy expressions
on Faegan’s and Shailiha’s faces slowly darkened.

CHAPTER XXXI
THOUSANDS OF LEAGUES SOUTH OF ELLISTIUM AND JUST across the Pon Q’tar–controlled
Borderlands lay a gently rolling plain. Stretching for many leagues, its grasses waved gracefully
beneath the midday sun. The only sounds came from the passing wind and the black and yellow
striped honeybees buzzing about in search of their daily nectar.
A lone oak tree stood broad and tall in the midst of the plain. Its gnarled trunk had struggled
skyward thousands of years ago from a single acorn carried there by some meandering bird. The
tree’s thick branches and deep green leaves cast an irregular shadow over the grass, the
ever-moving umbra slowly tracing a path around the trunk as the sun chased it from east to west.
Dark mountain ranges loomed to the east of the field, their tops capped with ice and snow that
melted each year to replenish the fountainheads of the Six Rivers.
Under normal circumstances the idyllic scene might have granted a place where lovers might
couple unseen amid the waves of tall grass. But this day the tree and the rolling grassland
surrounding it would serve a far darker purpose than providing some secret trysting place.
Instead, it would soon become the staging area of Vespasian’s campaign against Shashida.
Had those imaginary lovers truly been there they would have seen a strange pinprick of azure light
form in the air near the tree trunk. Soon the mysterious star broadened into a whirling spiral, its
outer edges gaining speed and size to form a circle many meters across. The azure spiral grew
darker, then parted down the center to unleash the first of many horrors that would eventually
mass in the quiet field.
While one rider led the way, ninety-nine more followed him out of the azure spiral. The one
hundred mounted Blood Stalker scouts attached to the mighty Twenty-third Legion rode quickly
across the grass to become the vanguard of Vespasian’s invasion force.
As their horses pawed and snorted, the riders formed one line. Each was eager to start the hunt,
but first they would search the immediate area for right-leaning endowed blood. Only then would
the main body of Vespasian’s forces start arriving by way of hundreds more vortices, each far
larger than that which had just formed. The stalkers knew that their sweep of this place had to be
thorough, for Vespasian’s forces must arrive unseen.
Unlike those that once served Failee, some Rustannican Blood Stalkers retained their intelligence
and their powers of speech. But less than one in one thousand of them were high-functioning,
because among their many other deformities, the vast majority always suffered irreparable brain
damage and cleft palates during their forced conversions from captured Shashidan mystics to
Blood Stalkers. Only those Shashidans mystics of great intelligence and inordinately highly
endowed blood kept their ken and their vocal gifts fully intact. From the earliest days the Pon Q’tar
clerics had recognized the usefulness of such superior stalkers and used them for a higher
purpose than that of their drooling, less sentient brothers.
Because the lesser stalkers could be rebellious, only the intelligent ones were allowed to
command patrols without the aegis of an Imperial Order Tribune. Known in Old Eutracian as
“carnefiis,” or “tormentors,” a famous carnifex commanded this first reconnoitering. Some of the
regular stalkers here with him today—also known as “vulgarium,” or common—had proudly taken
part in the recent coliseum massacres during which Vespasian offered phrygian status to one of
the Shashidan captives. It would be the task of the carnefiis to take charge of the individual groups
formed when the stalkers split up to start their far-ranging search.
Because of their rarity, carnefiis were valuable assets to the legions. On surviving the painful
transformation with their intellects and vocal skills intact, all memories of their previous Shashidan
lives were cleansed from their minds by Pon Q’tar clerics. The forestallment allowing them to
sense right-leaning blood was granted while all their other gifts save for the ability to launch azure
bolts were wiped away. They were then given Rustannican names and indoctrinated body and
soul into the empire’s war machine. Like the vulgarium, their devotion to the Vagaries was
unshakable.
The carnifex commanding this mission was named Aegedes, and although he no longer
remembered it, several centuries ago he had been an important Shashidan mystic. Like all
carnefiis he had been granted the time enchantments that protected him from sickness and old
age. If carnefiis served the empire well they were sometimes rewarded with gold, lands, and
captured Shashidan women. Aegedes was many centuries old, his exploits and skills legendary
among the legions. He enjoyed killing Shashidans and he was especially good at it.
Although his grotesque bodily appearance was the same as other stalkers’, Aegedes’ uniform
resembled that of a tribune. He wore a gold breastplate and leather greaves and gauntlets. A
golden helmet topped with a red horsehair comb sat on his head. Like all stalkers he wore a
fringed warrior’s skirt and thick battle sandals laced up the calves. Around his neck hung a
collection of desiccated eyeballs, grisly trophies he had taken over the centuries from Shashidan
victims.
At his left hip hung the legionary sword, or gladius, and in one hand he held a traditional stalker’s
axe, its bottom end resting in one stirrup, its shiny opposing blades topped with the skull taken
from his first victim, a gold imperial eagle with outstretched wings bolted to its forehead. The
eagle signified Aegedes’ rank of Carnifex Magnus, allowing him to command not only all common
stalkers, but all other carnefiis as well. Aegedes was the only Carnifex Magnus in all Rustannica. It
was a singular title that he bore proudly.
Sitting atop his war mount, Aegedes said nothing as he too employed the craft to search out
Shashidan endowed blood. His gift revealed nothing. Spurring his horse, he rode down the long
line of waiting stalkers, looking sternly at each vulgaris and carnifex in turn. Each stalker shook his
head, indicating that he too sensed no right-leaning blood.
Satisfied for the moment, Aegedes ordered his most trusted carnifex from the line. The stalker
obeyed instantly and spurred his mount forward.
The carnifex’s Pon Q’tar–given name was Paganus, and he had served with Aegedes in many
campaigns to capture and kill Vigors worshippers. Unlike Aegedes he wore no gold breastplate or
helmet. Two shiny black leather belts crisscrossed his chest and attached to his warrior’s skirt at
opposite hips. A shiny gold disk engraved with the imperial eagle lay where the belts crossed,
showing Paganus’ rank as a carnifex. He too wore battle sandals and a warrior’s skirt and carried
the traditional axe. Like all carnefiis, he wore a gladius at his hip. Pulling his horse to a skidding
stop, Paganus looked into his master’s eyes.
“Yes, my lord?” he asked.
“Send them out,” Aegedes ordered simply. The Carnifex Magnus possessed a strong voice and
its tone was always decisive, commanding deep respect from his underlings.
“Three leagues in every direction should suffice,” he added. “I want this done quickly, Paganus.
My group and I will wait here and protect the portal. When all nine patrols have reported and I am
sure that this area is clear, I will return to the war camp and inform the First Tribune. Be quick, for
he eagerly awaits our word. Remember, we are not here to take slaves, only lives. Follow these
directives to the letter and there’ll be no need to subject you to an Imperial Order court-martial.”
Turning to look back at the line of waiting stalkers, Aegedes clenched his jaw. “Should any of the
patrols fail in their duties, I will kill you personally.”
From atop his impatient horse Paganus immediately gave his master a crisp legionary salute.
“All will be done as you say,” he answered. Spurring his horse, he returned to the long line of
eager stalkers and started barking out orders.
Aegedes watched as his stalkers broke into groups of ten, with one carnifex leading each group
save for his own. As he rode his horse back toward his waiting group, the other nine patrols
charged off in different directions, their horses’ shoes flinging grass and dirt as they went. While
riding away for three leagues, each group would use their specialized gifts to search for endowed
blood. If none was found, Aegedes could be certain that an invasion staging area measuring six
leagues in diameter was free of Shashidan mystics.
Under normal circumstances, Aegedes’ standing orders were specific. When Shashidans were
found, they were to be taken alive if possible, then sent home to meet their fates atop the slave
block in Ellistium’s great forum. If Shashidan mystics were met, they were to be killed or taken as
prisoners of war. But capturing mystics was a risky business, often resulting in many stalker
deaths.
The orders for this all-important mission were different. This time the First Tribune had warned
Aegedes that the taking of slaves was strictly prohibited. Feeding them and trying to return them
to Ellistium would only create hardships. This time, no matter whom the stalkers met, they were
to be summarily killed. This campaign was about taking the Shashidan gold mines, not human
beings. If the mines could be won, their immense wealth would dwarf the rewards of slave-taking
thousands of times over. Lucius had also said that should Aegedes need to kill any unruly stalkers
as an object lesson to help maintain discipline, no questions would be asked.
Aegedes looked at his nine remaining vulgarium. Drooling and eager, they sat restlessly atop their
horses, hoping that the Carnifex Magnus might change his mind and let them attend the killing
spree.
“Dismount,” Aegedes ordered. “Keep trying to sense endowed blood. Until the others return, we
wait here.”
As his stalkers left their saddles, Aegedes heard some of them utter rudimentary sounds that
resembled grumbling. They communicated only in throaty tones, nonsensical syllables, and
sweeping gestures. Some Rustannican mystics had learned the strange vulgarium way of
speaking, as had each carnifex and legionary tribune.
After the lumbering stalkers climbed down from their horses, Aegedes noticed one of them
starting to collect branches that had fallen from the massive oak tree. Clearly, the lumbering fool
was about to light a fire.
Swinging one leg over his saddle pommel, Aegedes dropped to the grass. As he slipped up
behind the stalker, the Carnifex Magnus silently unsheathed his sword.
Raising the blade high he brought it around swiftly, its broad side slapping hard against the
vulgaris’ bare back. Although the blow was not meant to kill, the stinging pain and the red mark
would last for days, branding the stalker with the ultimate humiliation of unworthiness.
Screaming in agony, the stalker swiveled around, intent on murdering whoever had struck him.
When he found himself face to face with the Carnifex Magnus he lowered his bloodstained axe
and let go a deep growling sound.
Sheathing his sword, Aegedes looked each stalker in the face.
“No fires!” he ordered. “You know our orders—this is a clandestine patrol! The next one who
disobeys me dies!”
The stalker Aegedes struck pointed obstinately at the small woodpile he had collected, then gave
the Carnifex Magnus a nasty glare. It was clear that he had not given up on a fire, foolish as it
might be.
“Hach-a-garrr!” he shouted.
“No!” Aegedes shouted back, determined to keep control. He didn’t want to kill the glowering
vulgaris, but if need be he would remove his head from his body without hesitation. This was the
most important campaign of Aegedes’ life and he would allow no drooling underling to rob him of
his glory.
To stress his resolve, Aegedes reached across his body to touch the hilt of his gladius. Growling
in protest, the petulant vulgaris finally lumbered off to join his brothers as they continued to search
out endowed blood. Deciding to take a look around, Aegedes walked down the gently sloping field.
His group had barely entered Shashidan territory, but their incursion constituted an act of war just
the same. He couldn’t be sure about how long it would take his patrols to return, but the longer
they were gone, the likelier it was that they had met Shashidans who needed killing. Although he
treated his carnefiis and vulgarium harshly, he was proud of them. No stalker ranks had taken as
many heads or captives as had his, and he meant to keep it that way. Part of him wanted no
Shashidans to be found, for that would better ensure the stealthy nature of Vespasian’s advance.
But he also wanted his stalkers to take many heads this day, giving him the ability to submit
another glowing report to Lucius. As he thought about it, Aegedes smiled. He could live with either
outcome, he decided.
Turning east, he looked toward the Vertex Mostim, the immense mountain range bordering
Rustannica and Shashida on their eastern sides. Tall and snow-capped, the granite peaks were
beautiful but forbidding. It was said by the Pon Q’tar that the civilizations on the Vertex’s eastern
side were uncultured, their craft use primitive, and that their people called these same mountains
the Tolenkas. But that didn’t matter, he realized. After the empire’s legions took the Shashidan
mines and went on to conquer the entire nation, there would be all the time in the world to find a
way to cross the Vertex and crush whoever lived on the other side. By then nothing could stand in
the empire’s way. The world would finally be theirs, and they would have paid for it dearly in
Rustannican blood.
As he scanned the Vertex, Aegedes could barely see the six majestic waterfalls bursting from the
sides of the peaks. Each one had loosed its fresh, cold water for aeons, and each was
responsible for forming and sustaining one of the six rivers that clawed deep into Shashida like
jagged fingers. The empire’s barges would soon ply those rivers, taking city after city to protect
the transport of stolen gold on its way back to the waiting portals. Curving around on either side,
Vespasian’s mighty legions would sweep each armada’s flanks clear of any land-based
resistance, then take the mines. It would be an amazing fight, and one in which Aegedes would be
immensely proud to play his small but important part.
Aside from Shashida’s reputedly massive gold mines, Rustannicans greatly envied her other,
perhaps even more valuable natural resouce—namely, her abundant supply of clean water and
the six wide rivers that so briskly carried it due south into her heartland. In Rustannica, the Vertex
peaks also supplied water, but not in such copious amounts or of such wonderful purity. Rather
than forming rivers, in Rustannica the base of the Vertex had become swampland—most of it
unrecoverable, even for their mystics. And so the precious Rustannican water springing from the
Vertex had to be manually collected and channeled down a clever series of Pon Q’tar–designed
aqueducts that carried it to Rustannican cities. The aqueducts worked well, and the Shashidans
had never invaded far enough into Rustannican territory to endanger them. Although two full
legions continually guarded the aqueducts, their lengths were so vast that areas of vulnerability
always existed.
Looking back to the south, Aegedes thought for a moment about the Borderlands, the massive
tract of Rustannican territory that separated the two warring nations along their entire east-west
border. The countryside it encompassed was beautiful and lush—unless the Pon Q’tar activated
the powerful spells that turned it into a living nightmare from which there was no return. Differing
spells could be chosen to morph the inviting terrain into a fiery desert or a frozen wasteland,
neither of which could sustain life. Because of that, the Borderlands had always remained
uninhabited. Meant to protect Rustannica from invasion by Shashida, the Borderlands killed
anyone trapped in their midst. That was not to say that the Borderlands were summoned every
time the Shashidans tried crossing it, for the power needed to do so was severely draining to the
Pon Q’tar clerics and was therefore used only in the direst of emergencies. But effective as it
was, the unique environmental weapon had other drawbacks.
When the Borderlands were summoned, everyone there—be they Rustannican or
Shashidan—soon died from exposure to the harsh elements. The Borderlands took no notice of
one’s allegiances, killing indiscriminately. Aegedes also knew that the Pon Q’tar was not above
summoning the Borderlands even if legionnaires were patrolling there, provided that a greater
number of Shashidan soldiers could be killed at the same time. The Carnifex Magnus snorted at
that notion. War of Attrition, indeed, he thought.
Moreover, when the Borderlands were summoned, all other uses of the craft were negated
there—including magic portals like the one his stalkers had just used to come thousands of
leagues across its great expanse. Coming on patrol in Shashida this way was always risky, for if
the Borderlands were summoned during a mission, there would be no way home again until the
Pon Q’tar deemed the threat past and the spell was dismantled. Aegedes had once heard that the
magic summoned to bring the Borderlands to life was so awesome that it overpowered all other
craft uses, rendering them too feeble to be called forth. In truth he didn’t know, nor did he care.
But one tale he had heard about the Borderlands did awe him. During the entire known history of
the Borderlands, only two beings had entered its deadly midst and survived. One of them was
said to be called the Jin’Sai, a man of wondrous blood that lived on the world’s other side.
Looking back toward the south, Aegedes’ thoughts returned to how his marauding stalkers were
faring. Deciding to rest a bit, he walked back up the grassy knoll to await the return of his patrols.

THE NEXT SHASHIDAN TO DIE AT PAGANUS’ HAND WAS A girl child, aged no more than
seven years. No endowed blood had been detected in the small village lying four leagues due
south. Even so, the Carnifex Magnus had been explicit. Kill every Shashidan you find, he had said,
whether of endowed blood or not.
Spurring his war horse, Paganus charged through the flowery field and soon caught up to the
screaming, fleeing child. As he deftly swung his gladius, the blond girl’s neck sliced open like
paper and her head fell from her shoulders to go tumbling to the ground. Her body followed, its
arms and legs flailing about madly in all directions. Wheeling his horse, Paganus lowered his
bloodstained axe and looked down the hill toward another gruesome scene.
The entire village was ablaze. It had been small, holding only a few wooden buildings and a
smattering of Vigors-loving souls unworthy of life. It had also been quite pedestrian, showing little
of the usual Shashidan propensity toward garishness that he so hated. He much preferred the
stark and martial aspects of Rustannican architecture, with its marble columns, broad forums,
and statues of heroic emperors.
This village held the usual cross section of Shashidan scum—men, women, children, and the
elderly. Azure bolts loosed from Paganus’ fingertips had set every building ablaze, and the
structures were now little more than smoldering shells. He didn’t know the name of the place, nor
did he need to. All that mattered was that everyone in this forlorn village died. As his warhorse
danced beneath him, Paganus could smell the sickly-sweet odor of burning flesh, telling him that
the job was nearly done. Dismounting and gathering up the dead girl’s head and body, he slung
them across his saddle, then mounted again and galloped back toward the village.
Riding into the town square, he pulled his horse to a skidding stop. It seemed that his vulgarium
had done their jobs well. According to their orders, they were dragging the corpses into the square
and heaping them into a pile. Others were busily using their axes to chop the bodies into pieces to
make their immolation more efficient.
Walking his horse forward, Paganus unceremoniously shoved the girl’s severed head and lifeless
body from his saddle onto the growing pile. As it landed, one of the drooling, axe-wielding stalkers
stopped chopping and stared up at him.
“Rach-tu-lag?” he asked.
“Of course that one too, you cretinous hulk!” he shouted. “Why do you think we came all this
way?”
Paganus was about to jump down from his horse and give the nearly mindless vulgaris a good
tongue-lashing when he heard a woman scream. Swiveling in his saddle, he turned to look.
One of the stalkers had found a survivor. She was young and pretty, and she seemed to be
unharmed. She was insane with fear, and much of her dress was covered in someone else’s
blood. The stalker dragged her by her hair from a smoldering building and tossed her to the
ground. Standing astride her, he started to remove his fringed warrior’s skirt, making his intentions
all too plain. As he dropped down atop her, the other vulgarium started cheering and shouting.
Whipping his horse, Paganus drew his gladius and charged straight toward the aroused vulgaris.
As he neared, he took the stalker’s head off with one swing of his sword, and the headless corpse
collapsed atop the young Shashidan woman. Screaming insanely, she managed to shove the
stalker off herself, then sprang to her feet. Wheeling his horse, Paganus charged back toward
her. In moments her severed head and lifeless body lay alongside those of the rebellious stalker,
their yellow and red blood commingling to feed the thirsty dirt.
Paganus turned and glared harshly at his other eight vulgarium. Pointing his sword at them, he
shouted, “You know your orders! There is no time for this! Now do your duties and finish cutting
up those corpses! We still have two more leagues to cover!”
Amid much growling, the eight vulgarium finished their grisly task, with the heads and other body
parts of the dead stalker and the young woman finally added to the pile. Swarms of hungry flies
had already started feasting on the easy prey of gaping wounds and open, unseeing eyes.
After looking around the smoldering village one last time, Paganus ordered his vulgarium to mount
their horses and form a line. Walking his horse closer, he raised one hand and pointed it at the
pile of corpses. At once the pile burst into flame, adding yet more stink to the air.
Ordering his stalkers onward in the search for right-leaning endowed blood, Paganus led the
charge from the destroyed village, and the stalkers again headed south.

TEN HOURS LATER, AEGEDES RESTED AGAINST THE TRUNK OF the lone oak tree.
Reaching into the pack that he had taken from his horse, he grasped some more dried jerky and
his water flask. Because he wanted his stalkers to move fast, such meager rations were all that
he had allowed each one to bring along. The jerky was tough and the water warm, but they would
do for now.
Aegedes looked up at the sky. Night had fallen and the cloudless heavens held too many stars to
count. The three red moons beamed down peacefully, belying the mayhem that would soon
accompany Vespasian’s mighty war machine. With his nine vulgarium gathered quietly around
him, Aegedes waited.
Soon the first of his patrols returned. They had killed some Shashidans traveling the roads, but
otherwise their area of responsibility had been clear of endowed blood. As more patrols returned,
their stories were much the same. The souls they had killed were few, the resistance meager,
and there had been no stalker injuries.
Finally Paganus and his group rode up the grassy slope. Pulling his horse to a stop, the carnifex
dismounted and bowed to his master. From his resting place against the base of the tree
Aegedes took another sip of water and regarded his carnifex calmly. The fact that one stalker was
missing was not lost on him.
Aegedes listened intently to Paganus’ report, including the killing of the unruly vulgaris. The
Carnifex Magnus stood up before replying.
“It seems that our job is done,” he said, “and that the area in question has been cleared.” Walking
to his warhorse, he swung up into the saddle.
“I go to report to the First Tribune,” he said, his horse dancing eagerly beneath him. “While I am
away, do not leave this place. Keep trying to sense endowed blood, and above all protect this lone
portal with your lives. If endowed blood is detected, search it out immediately and kill its owners.
This is the most important campaign in the history of the empire and we cannot afford mistakes.
You will likely see hundreds more portals forming within the hour. At that time, the tribunes will
issue us new orders. You have done well, but our bloody work has just begun.”
Paganus gave Aegedes a crisp salute. “As you say, my lord,” he answered.
Wasting no time, Aegedes galloped his horse directly into the center of the azure portal, then he
was gone.
Looking around the meager campsite, Paganus breathed a sigh of relief. For the time being their
mission was over. Aegedes seemed pleased and he was off to give his report. Soon many more
portals would form, then the Rustannican war machine would start pouring through them and this
quiet place would become a madhouse of activity.
Deciding to take what rest he could, Paganus sat down in Aegedes’ place and leaned his tired
back against the lone tree.

CHAPTER XXXII
“I AGREE,” FAEGAN SAID. THE WIZARD’S TONE WAS UNCHARACTERISTICALLY dour, his
mood pensive.
“The outlook is not promising,” he added, “and it seems that whatever could have gone wrong did
go wrong. Who knew that Khristos and his Blood Vipers would be waiting on the shore of the
Azure Sea, or that those rock walls might suddenly arise?”
He gave Shailiha a reassuring smile and reached out to touch her hand. “But take heart,” he
added softly. “Tristan and his group are a sturdy and resourceful lot. If anyone can reach
Shashida, it is they.”
Sighing, the crippled wizard lifted Nicodemus from his lap. But the still-sleeping cat was not ready
to be dislodged from the warmth of his master’s care, and his claws remained hooked in the
fabric of Faegan’s worn black robe.
With a smile the wizard called the craft to gently release the cat’s claws and he set Nicodemus
down on the floor. Not to be denied, the cat stretched lazily and wended his way among the
meeting attendees’ legs, rubbing his arched back against them.
The topics being discussed in the Archives of the Redoubt were worrisome. Faegan, Traax,
Shailiha, Abbey, Aeolus, and Sigrid sat at a meeting table, each person’s face long with concern
for their beloved friends who were sailing into the unknown. Three days had passed since
Tristan’s message had reached Shailiha by way of their matching medallions, and the princess
was becoming anxious. Compounding her worries was that little could be done until Khristos and
his vipers surfaced. Faegan and Aeolus had explained Khristos’ history to everyone, and Shailiha
had been surprised to hear of him.
Several times since receiving Tristan’s message, the princess had been tempted to contact her
brother before finally deciding against it. When the Envoys of Crysenium had enchanted Tristan
and Shailiha’s medallions, they had warned the Jin’Sai that the gift could be easily overused,
risking its loss altogether. And so Shailiha resolved to call on her medallion only if there was
something of importance to convey to Tristan. So far, nothing had arisen. After getting Tristan’s
message, Aeolus and Traax had led a group of Minion warriors deep into the Caves in a try to
hunt Khristos down, but they returned empty-handed. Nor had Aeolus divined a hint of endowed
blood.
Even so, the Vagaries wizard and his servants could still be hiding there, for the Caves were
immense and the areas that Nicholas had excavated remained largely unexplored. Night Witch
patrols searched the length and breadth of Eutracia, but they could find no sign of the Vagaries
wizard or of his macabre forces. With no one to fight, Shailiha and her Conclave members felt
stymied and frustrated. And so they anxiously waited for word from the Night Witches, for only
then could a proper attack be planned.
But how does one fight a ghostlike enemy that can seemingly vanish at will? Shailiha wondered.
And even if we find him and his vipers, will we prevail?
“Let’s review what we know,” Aeolus offered, rousing the princess from her thoughts. As she
looked across the table, she found his calm manner comforting.
“First, Wigg and Jessamay are injured, but they will heal,” he said. He gave everyone around the
table a little smile. “If I know those two, they’ll be back on their feet annoying everyone in no time.”
Shailiha looked over at Abbey to see the herbmistress smile for the first time in two days. She
was terribly worried for Wigg, as they all were. But because she was Wigg’s lover, the First
Wizard’s injuries struck a far more sensitive chord in her than in the others. After having been
apart from Wigg for more than three centuries, she had no wish to lose him all over again. She
had been desolate when it was decided that she would not accompany him on the journey, but
she knew it was for the best. As she glanced back at Shailiha she tried to give the princess a
hopeful look.
“The rock walls that rose from the sea floor are dangerous to navigate, but if Phoebe is right, the
Ones might be funneling the Black Ships toward Shashida,” Aeolus went on to say. “If that is true
and they can keep the ships clear of the walls, the path to Shashida is ensured.”
“Unless all this is a Vagaries trap, engineered by the Pon Q’tar,” Traax countered. “And even if
Phoebe’s theory is right, problems remain. Their fighting force has been cut by a full one-third.
That’s a staggering loss, and Tristan knows it. I can only imagine how savage the fighting on that
beach must have been. Then there is this added business about the azure water perhaps
damaging the ships’ hulls. I am fully aware that’s only a possibility, but should they lose those
ships—”
“We can’t change those things,” Faegan interrupted. “So no matter how difficult it might be, we
must not worry about them.”
Shailiha sighed and sat back in her chair. Faegan was right—worrying would do no good. Tristan
had chosen his path, and nothing could prevent him from following it. It was what he was born to
do, and everyone knew it.
She turned to look at Sigrid. The female warrior’s broken right arm was in a sling from tumbling
through the bell shop roof in Tanglewood, but it was healing. Shailiha knew simply by looking at
the devoted Night Witch that the pain Sigrid felt at not being able to lead her patrols far outweighed
the suffering from her injured arm.
“There is still no sign of Khristos and his vipers?” Shailiha asked.
As Sigrid adjusted her sling, she winced. “No,” she said sadly. “It’s as though the earth swallowed
them up. How does one move such a huge force without being seen from the air? It’s
nonsensical—unless they’re still in the Caves. I fully understand that Khristos intended to kill
Tristan’s group to keep them from reaching Shashida. And as Tristan’s message said, with Failee
dead it is likely that Khristos has come under the control of the Pon Q’tar. But Tristan escaped, so
why would Khristos linger in the Caves? At any given time several Night Witch patrols search
Eutracia from above. My witches are exhausted, but finding the enemy has become a matter of
honor. They’ll keep looking until they fall from the sky.”
“What are Khristos’ plans, indeed?” Faegan asked. He pulled thoughtfully on his beard for several
moments. “There can be but one answer. Having failed to kill Tristan and his group, he will come
after the Jin’Saiou.”
“How can you be so sure?” Shailiha asked.
“With Tristan free from Khristos’ reach, you present the most important target,” Aeolus answered.
“If the Pon Q’tar cannot destroy your brother, they will settle for killing you. Khristos might be the
last of the Vagaries worshippers on our side of the world whose gifts are powerful enough to
commune with them and to do their bidding. They will surely use him to their greatest advantage.”
Shailiha’s expression hardened. “Then let him and his vipers come,” she said softly. “I welcome it!
To reach me, he must first enter Tammerland. All the Minions have been put on alert, and the
warriors patrolling the city streets have been doubled. If he and his forces enter the city, they will
be seen. So I say let the fighting start! Anything is better than this infernal waiting!”
Just then an urgent pounding came on the Archives doors. “Enter!” Shailiha called.
The doors opened to show a Minion warrior standing there. Shailiha recognized Lars, the officer in
charge of palace security. He was deeply out of breath. Running to the princess’s chair, he
quickly went down on bended knee.
Realizing that something was wrong, Traax immediately stood. “Speak!” he shouted. “What is
happening?”
“Tammerland is overrun by the Blood Vipers!” Lars cried. “The night is dark, but even so, we
should have seen them coming! No one knows how they got into the city unseen, and their
numbers are overpowering our street patrols! The citizens are at their mercy!”
“Are they marching on the palace?” Faegan demanded.
Lars vehemently shook his head. “That’s the strange part,” he said. “They seem to have no
interest in the palace. The beasts are flowing down the streets like rushing rivers, burning
buildings and killing people at random. The few warriors who survived the initial onslaught are
fighting back, but they cannot last long!”
Snatching up his dreggan and baldric, Traax hurried to strap them on. “Has the Minion camp
outside the palace walls been mobilized?” he demanded.
Lars turned toward Shailiha. “They have, Your Highness!” he answered. “They circle in the sky
above the palace! Litters await you in the courtyard!”
Suddenly energized, Shailiha leapt to her feet. This was the moment she had been waiting for! At
last the vipers had exposed themselves! Even so, she decided to withhold her orders until she
and the Conclave could get into the air and take better stock of the situation.
As though of one mind, Lars, Sigrid, and the Conclave members charged from the room.

CHAPTER XXXIII
THIRTY-SIX HOURS EARLIER, KHRISTOS HAD STOOD ALONE just outside the entrance to
the Caves of the Paragon. It was early evening, and he felt assured that he could linger there in
safety. Shailiha and her Conclave would likely not yet know about his recent battle with Tristan
and the Minions, and would therefore not think to search the labyrinthine caves. He had sadly
informed Gracchus of his failure to kill the Jin’Sai, and of the strange rock walls that had surfaced
from the Azure Sea. Even so, he had destroyed many Minion warriors, and for that he was glad.
Following the orders Gracchus had given him during their earlier communion, he had come to this
spot alone, leaving his vipers behind in the caves.
“Take no further action until you again sense my ken,” Gracchus had told him. “Worry not that
you failed to kill the Jin’Sai. Exit the caves and await my word. At that time I will give you new
orders that will spell the end of his twin, the Jin’Saiou. In many ways she is an even greater prize,
and killing her will be equally delicious, I assure you. When Tristan hears of her death, the pain he
will suffer will be even greater than had you killed him with your silver staff on that bloody beach.”
And so Khristos left his servants behind in the caves to come and tarry in the magenta moonlight.
As he stood waiting, the wind came up, ruffling the hem of his robe. The moonlight glinted off his
staff, and the night creatures that had stopped singing when he first arrived slowly adjusted to his
presence and took up their odd-sounding choruses again. The grass was heavy with dew, its
countless stalks looking like row on row of tiny, glistening sword blades. This place was peaceful
and beautiful, but he had little appreciation for it, because in his heart he only hungered to redeem
himself and for his fight to start anew.
As he waited for Gracchus’ word he dropped the hood of his cloak, his hairless cranium shining in
the moonlight. He then thought about Failee and smiled, wondering how she would have
interpreted his new mission.
Although he was not taking her revenge in the manner that she had planned, this way was better,
he decided. The Directorate of Wizards on whom she had originally wished to wreak vengeance
were all dead, save for Wigg, Faegan, and Aeolus. And so he now did his best to kill those directly
responsible for foiling Failee’s plans for Shailiha and for causing her untimely death. It is fitting, he
reasoned.
Even now he missed the First Mistress, despite the wicked way she had tricked and used him. In
truth his devotion to the Vagaries would allow him no other sentiment. Bearing a left-leaning blood
signature of such great quality meant undying loyalty to the cause and unswerving devotion to
those Vagaries mystics whose gifts outshone one’s own. So it had been with Failee, and so it
now was with Gracchus.
What Khristos could not know was that before Gracchus deigned to again commune with him,
the Pon Q’tar cleric would first meet in secret with his fellows in the small invisible war tent—the
same tent that stood far away from the main body of Vespasian’s camp as the emperor awaited
word from the Carnifex Magnus that the invasion could safely start. Because Gracchus had given
the other Pon Q’tar members the bad news about Tristan’s escape and outlined his further plans
for the Jin’Saiou, Gracchus was free to communicate his new orders to Khristos.
Just then the Viper Lord felt Gracchus’ mind reaching out to touch his. Going to his knees in the
dewy grass, he bowed his head.
“I am here,” his thoughts said.
“Good,” Gracchus answered. “Pay close attention to my orders. You will soon use one of Failee’s
spells with which you are intimately familiar. Following my instructions to the letter will take you far
toward your final victory, and soon Eutracia and Parthalon will be yours to rule. Listen now and I
will tell you all…”
As Gracchus outlined his plan, Khristos was surprised and impressed. The Jin’Saiou and her
Conclave would never see the attack coming. Tammerland would be just the first step, but also
the most important one. As he turned back to reenter the Caves, he smiled as he wondered what
it would soon be like to sit on Tristan’s throne…

NINE HOURS LATER, KHRISTOS AND HIS SERPENTS HAD EXITED the Caves, and they
stood along the southern bank of the Sippora River as it rushed eastward along the northern
edges of Hartwick Wood toward the coast. Dawn would arrive soon, but for now the sky was still
dark, its stealthy embrace hiding him and his servants from prying eyes. His Blood Vipers waited
eagerly, their immense numbers stretching along the riverbank for nearly two full leagues. At his
signal they would all leave this place and start their secret trek toward Tammerland. Then
Khristos’ private war could start again.
To Khristos’ amazement, Failee’s three-hundred-year-old spell—the same one she had used to
condemn Khristos to the water and give the viper embryos the chance to survive and to
grow—still endured in them, Gracchus said. Moreover, when Khristos and his vipers again
entered the water, like the time before, the spell would sustain them and they would no longer
need to seek food. He had not known this, and he fully realized the many advantages that this new
knowledge would bring. Failee’s spell that had once entrapped him and his vipers could now be
used at will to further his ends.
How I wish that she could be here to see this night! he thought. What my love tried so hard to
achieve is nearly in my grasp! When my task is done, the Vagaries will rule everywhere east of
the Tolenka Mountains.
Having given his lead vipers their orders in the Caves, they had informed all of the others. As his
Blood Vipers waited on the riverbank they eagerly writhed and hissed, wanting to be on their way.
The time was now, Khristos realized. Raising his staff, he pointed it toward the river.
At once the thousands of Blood Vipers dived into the rushing Sippora and submerged. Failee’s
unique spell that gave them life and allowed them to survive the depths would sustain them all the
way to Tammerland, and the current would carry them along.
As he watched his servants vanish into the depths, he knew that they would not surface again
until they were well into the heart of Tammerland, for the Sippora ran straight through the city’s
center. Only then would they surface to climb the banks and enter the city. Their great numbers
coupled with the huge advantage of surprise would quickly overcome the meager Minion patrols
wandering the streets, and the killing could start. Even so, this part of Gracchus’ plan was only a
diversion to help serve the more important stage that would follow.
In the heart of Tammerland the Sippora split into two branches before joining again and continuing
toward the sea. The southernmost branch ran close by the royal palace. As the main body of
Blood Vipers continued on, Khristos and the others would split off and keep traveling along the
riverbed bordering the palace grounds.
After the main body exited the water to engage the Minion street patrols, the alarms would go out,
bringing the palace grounds to life and summoning the Minions into the heart of the city to deal
with the sudden threat. With the palace and its grounds nearly unguarded, Khristos and his viper
group would exit the river and start their work. The savage killing of any Minion skeleton force left
behind to guard the palace would serve as a welcome bonus.
With all his vipers waiting in the river, Khristos dived into the water and began leading his forces
on the trek toward Tammerland.

FORTY-EIGHT HOURS LATER, KHRISTOS AND HIS FORCES had reached the heart of
Tammerland undetected. Because of Failee’s spell, despite the murkiness of the river water he
and his vipers could see one another plainly. Using hand signals, Khristos ordered some of his
servants to stride up the sloping riverbanks and to enter the unsuspecting city. It was evening in
Tammerland, and many citizens would still be walking the streets.
Good, Khristos thought. The more mayhem that is caused, the better things will go for us.
As half of his servants crawled up the underwater banks on opposite sides of the river, the Viper
Lord ordered his remaining force to wait behind. They would travel on to where the river branched.
By the time he reached the area bordering the palace grounds, he knew that his vipers exiting the
river in the city would have caused so much death and destruction that the palace would be nearly
abandoned, as would the prizes that he sought. Motioning his forces forward, they traveled on.
Dripping water as they came, the thousands of hissing Blood Vipers entered the city, and with
them came the first screams.

CHAPTER XXXIV
SITTING AT HIS DESK IN HIS PRIVATE QUARTERS ABOARD the Tammerland, Wigg heard the
ship’s bell, telling him that it was midafternoon. Putting down his quill, he stopped to listen.
Wafting through the open starboard windows from three decks above, the bell’s chimes were
reassuring yet frustrating. Tristan had been right when he said that time had no meaning in this
underground labyrinth of azure water, rock walls, and bright radiance stones. Despite all that he
had experienced during his more than three centuries of life, Wigg was forced to admit that the
absolute lack of nighttime was something truly extraordinary.
After placing the quill into its holder and closing the leather-bound volume before him, Wigg put
the book to one side. Since the final defeat of the Coven he had been writing almost daily in his
private journal, recording all the amazing things that he had witnessed. Part of him wished that he
had been doing so since he was a boy, because the idea of being able to revisit any previous day
of his choosing held a certain attraction for him. But as with so many of life’s projects, the needed
resolve had come late. Because his life had been so hectic in recent years, his journal often went
unmarked. But it was a worthwhile project, he reasoned, even if parts of it were written days or
weeks later. He smiled wryly as he thought about Faegan and the crippled wizard’s gift of
Consummate Recollection. He had no need for such a mundane tool as a daily journal.
As Wigg rose from his desk, his burns unexpectedly snapped at him again. Wincing, he nearly
cried out. He took a deep breath and called the craft, forcing the pain back into its lair. Only then
did he walk gingerly to the room’s starboard side and recline on the upholstered bench lying
beneath the row of open windows. Reaching out to the table before him, he poured a glass of
wine, then turned to gaze outside.
The Tammerland and the Ephyra were making good time, or so he supposed. But because the
monolithic rock walls surrendered few clues about how fast the Black Ships traveled, gauging the
ships’ speed seemed as pointless an endeavor as trying to measure the passing time. Like the
others aboard, Wigg found that sleeping in perpetual light was nearly impossible. Three days had
passed since the channel walls had arisen and Tristan’s little fleet had escaped Khristos and the
Blood Vipers. Because of the constant light and the mind-numbing sameness of the scenery,
those three days had seemed like three weeks.
Tristan kept ordering Night Witch patrols out ahead of the ships, a decision with which Wigg
heartily agreed. But with the return of each patrol the report was always the same: Nothing lies
before us except this endless channel. Even so, everyone kept hoping that the devoted witches
would sight something that might give the conclave an inkling about where they were headed and
what they were facing. Gingerly placing his legs atop the bench, Wigg sighed and took another sip
of the excellent wine.
Just now Astrid was piloting the Ephyra. Jessamay was topside, piloting the Tammerland from
the comfort of an upholstered chair near the ship’s bow. Wigg smiled again as he supposed that
the ever watchful Tyranny was surely standing by Jessamay’s side, second-guessing every
course adjustment the sorceresses made.
Although her burns were worse then Wigg’s, Jessamay insisted on fulfilling her share of the
piloting duties. So far there had been no mishaps, but the rocky walls always loomed near, and
not one of the four mystic pilots could afford to let his or her guard down when empowering the
vessels. It was exhausting work, and Wigg knew in his heart that it would be a miracle if the ships
didn’t eventually strike the walls, or—Afterlife forbid—collide with one another.
As soon as the ships left the waves, Minion shipwrights had performed airborne inspections of the
ships’ hulls. Everyone was relieved when the warriors reported that they saw nothing suspicious.
The ever-skeptical Wigg had insisted that one of them carry him in her arms and let him see for
himself, but even the First Wizard could find no apparent damage.
Still, Wigg remained concerned. He knew that these first inspections might mean little, for if azure
water had seeped into the ships’ timbers, it could be doing damage sight unseen. Because there
was no way to be certain, all he could do was wait and continue to order regular inspections. Of
perhaps even greater concern was the supposedly great distance to Shashida—if indeed that
was where they were headed. But other worries also gnawed at the old wizard—concerns that
had less to do with the perpetual light, the monotonous view, or the state of the ships’ hulls.
Like Tristan, Wigg was bone-tired and sick of seeing so much death and destruction. The three
centuries since the end of the Sorceresses’ War had given him a long time to reflect. Then the
Coven had unexpectedly returned, and with them yet another period of violence, political
uncertainty, and upheaval in the craft that had persisted almost without pause right up to the
present day. Although he tried his best not to show it, the defeat of the Coven and the powerful
Vagaries servants who followed them had taken their toll on him. There had been little time in
which to simply laugh, live, and love—the truly important things that make life worth living.
Moreover, he adored Abbey and missed her keenly, every passing day forcing him to wonder
whether he would ever see her again.
But even these concerns paled when compared with the singular worry that had troubled him
from the moment the subtle matter had been so unexpectedly released in the Redoubt and
tempted him and his friends into this strange quest. More than anything, he worried about what
they might find in Shashida and what effect it would have on Tristan.
Wigg was not Tristan and Shailiha’s father. Even so, since their births he had carefully watched
the Jin’Sai and Jin’Saiou grow to adulthood. He had done all that he could to shape their values
and beliefs according to the principles of the Vigors, and had he been their real father he could not
be prouder. He had witnessed their nearly simultaneous births while using the craft to help their
mother, Morganna, deal with her pain, and he had comforted Nicholas I as he watched his wife
suffer. As had been foretold in the Tome, an azure glow surrounded the blessed event, assuring
all that the Chosen Ones had finally come. And since the deaths of the king, the queen, and the
other members of the Directorate of Wizards on that tragic day of Tristan’s aborted coronation,
Wigg knew that he alone could best serve as the Chosen Ones’ mentor. As his responsibility
grew, so did his worry for them.
This is what vexes me so, he realized—the loss of so many loved ones and friends to the horrors
of the Vagaries. The loss of the Chosen Ones would be felt by us all, to be sure, but such a
catastrophe would tear my heart in two.
In truth he had always worried more for Tristan than for Shailiha, and there were ample reasons
why. Tristan was the impulsive one, the headstrong one, the one who always challenged every
answer with yet another question. Shailiha was more thoughtful and better able to harness her
emotions. She was every bit as capable a leader as her brother had come to be—perhaps even
more so, given her greater proclivity to think before acting. But because Tristan was prophesied to
be the first of them to try and bring peace to the warring nations of Rustannica and Shashida,
Wigg’s worry for him was the greatest.
Every soul aboard these two ships was risking his or her life to find Shashida, and not knowing
the nature of its culture was also deeply unsettling. If the Ones truly were the world’s greatest
masters of the Vigors, it should follow that they would be compassionate and understanding. But
what if they were not, and their only interest in Tristan was some arcane use of his blood to win
their terrible war for them? Wigg wondered. Could this be what the Tome referred to when it said
that Tristan’s blood would serve some higher purpose than had ever been seen before? After so
many aeons of war, had the Ones become like the Pon Q’tar, and were they now willing to win at
any price—including Tristan’s death? Or in the end would they—
Suddenly an urgent pounding was heard on the doors. Pushing aside his thoughts, Wigg placed
his wine glass on the table.
“Enter!” he called out.
The doors parted and Scars stood there. Without invitation the first mate hurried into the room
and approached Wigg, a concerned look on his face.
Wigg sat up quickly. “What is it?” he asked. “Has something happened?”
“One of the Night Witch patrols found something ahead in the channel,” Scars answered. “Tristan
wants you to come right away.”
Wigg came to his feet, his eagerness temporarily brushing aside his pain. “Is it Shashida?” he
asked breathlessly.
“I wasn’t told,” Scars answered. “Come—we must hurry!”
Just then Wigg felt the Tammerland stop in midair, telling him that Jessamay was causing the
ship to hover. Wasting no time, Wigg and Scars headed for the cabin door.
When they reached the bow topside they found Tristan, Tyranny, and Jessamay there, huddled
around a lone Night Witch commander and simultaneously bombarding her with questions. Many
warriors had also rushed forward to hear what she had to say. Wigg approached and elbowed his
way through the crowd.
“A ship, you say?” he heard Tristan ask. “What kind of ship? Where is she?”
The Night Witch Tristan was questioning looked rather young, and she seemed intimidated by her
anxious superiors. She looked at her Jin’Sai with an expression of subservience.
“Yes, a ship,” she answered. “She looks very old and her timbers are black. I daresay she’s easily
the size of ours.”
Seeing Wigg, Tristan asked, “Could she be another Black Ship? Did Black Ships exist before
those that you and the other wizards built to serve in the Sorceresses’ War?”
Wigg scowled. “It’s possible, I suppose, although I never considered it. The plans and
accompanying enchantments for the Black Ships were found in the Caves of the Paragon, so
someone might have used them before we did and then returned them to their hiding place. We
always assumed that the documents were left behind by the Ones, but we could never be sure.”
Wigg gave the Night Witch a commanding look. “What is the condition of this ship?” he asked. “Is
anyone aboard her?”
The Night Witch shook her head. “We saw no one,” she answered. “Nor did we board her, for fear
that craft use might be afoot. Her hull is nearly gone, and she lies beached on a huge rock shelf
along one channel wall. She rests on what remains of her port side. Much of her is smashed
beyond salvage.”
Wigg nodded. “You were right not to board her,” he said. “Can you tell us anything else?”
“Only that if you wish to view her, you should do so from a hovering litter,” she answered. “The
channel narrows up ahead and it looks barely large enough for our ships to pass through. From
here on, the channel zigzags. Trying to keep the ships away from the rock walls while also
inspecting the wreck from the ships’ decks would be difficult.”
“How far away is she?” Wigg asked.
The young Night Witch thought for a moment. “Distance is difficult to gauge here, but I would
guess that the site is about two leagues off our bow. Fresh warriors should be able to keep a litter
hovering for a sufficient time as you search the wreck and then bring you home without difficulty.”
“Thank you,” Tristan said. “You have done well. Go and rest.”
After clicking her boot heels together, the tired young warrior gave Tristan a short bow, then went
off to go belowdecks and find a place to sleep.
Tristan gave Wigg a wry smile. “What say you?” he asked. “Do you feel up to a little adventure?”
Perhaps it was only his earlier thoughts come back to haunt him, but Wigg sensed peril up ahead.
The discovery of a vessel resembling a Black Ship gone aground in this newly birthed channel
seemed impossible. Of even greater concern was whatever terrible force had tossed her onto the
rocks, and that the channel narrowed markedly. Even so, he knew that this find must be seen.
“Very well,” he answered Tristan. “But we must be careful.”
Tristan looked over at Scars. “Wigg, Tyranny, and I will go,” he ordered. “Have a litter made ready
at once. Two hundred armed warriors will accompany us. Tell them to stay alert, because we
cannot know what awaits us. You and Jessamay will stay here to mind the Tammerland. And
send a messenger to the Ephyra, informing Astrid and Phoebe what’s going on.”
As Scars rushed off, Tyranny gave Tristan a grateful look. “Thank you for taking me along,” she
said. “Truth be told, if you hadn’t asked me, I’d be pitching a fit right now.”
Tristan let go a short laugh. “I know,” he answered. “But don’t chalk it up to kindness. I will need a
maritime expert out there, and that’s you.”
He turned to see a litter being untied from the deck and a host of warriors rushing to man it. “Let’s
go,” he said to Wigg and Tyranny. “If nothing else, this should prove interesting.”
Wigg raised an eyebrow in Tyranny’s direction and the privateer smiled back, acknowledging
Tristan’s gift for understatement. They climbed into the litter, and the Minion bearers took it aloft.
No sooner had the litter become airborne than its passengers heard a great tumult from the
Tammerland’s crowded decks. As hundreds of Minion warriors cried out in wonderment, Tristan,
Wigg, and Tyranny turned to look.
The subtle matter secured in Wigg’s quarters had somehow freed itself from its glass vial and
come soaring through one of the open windows on the Tammerland’s starboard side. The
amazing substance twinkled brightly in the light of the radiance stones as it flew in a long stream
to find its freedom in the air above the water. Everyone stood gaping as it collected near the
departing litter for a moment, then streamed away over the water and down the length of the
channel.
Knowing how important the magical substance was to their safe return home, Tristan shouted out
orders to the litter bearers to follow it and keep it in their sight. Like Wigg, he was terrified that they
might lose possession of the subtle matter forever.
What is it doing? Tristan asked himself as he felt the litter lurch forward and pick up speed. And
what in the name of the Afterlife caused it to so suddenly free itself? Suspecting correctly that the
ride was about to become a wild one, Tristan gripped one side of the litter for dear life, then
shouted to Wigg and Tyranny to do the same.
As they tore down the length of the channel in pursuit of the subtle matter, the oncoming wind
ripped at their hair and clothing and caused their eyes to water. Tristan had never seen Minion
warriors fly so strenuously, and he knew that they couldn’t keep this pace up for long. But the
priceless subtle matter was pulling away from them, despite how hard the straining Minions pulled
the litter through the sky. Knowing that they would soon lose track of it, Tristan made a decision.
“Despite your injuries, can you empower this litter and fly it faster?” he shouted at Wigg. “We’re
falling behind!”
“Yes!” Wigg shouted back, trying to be heard above the rushing wind. “But if I do, the litter bearers
must release us and then follow as best they can! That means we will arrive at the shipwreck
unguarded, and there is no guarantee that I can keep pace with the subtle matter! I won’t be able
to keep this speed up for long, but it seems that I must try if we are to have any chance of staying
with it!”
“Then do it!” Tristan shouted back.
He immediately worked his way to one side of the litter, then the other, as he barked out identical
orders to the bearers. On his hand signal, the Minions simultaneously let go of the litter, then
started trying to keep pace alongside.
To Tristan’s horror, the litter plunged straight down toward the azure waves. Just as it was about
to hit, Wigg’s use of the craft blessedly took hold and the litter lurched upward again and gained
more speed. But as he strained to look ahead, Tristan could see that their maneuver had cost
them precious time and that the subtle matter had gained even more ground in its chase toward
the unknown.
Suddenly a sharp right turn loomed up ahead. The subtle matter veered effortlessly to negotiate it,
then disappeared around the bend between the two rock walls. Hanging on as best they could,
Tristan and Tyranny nearly fell from the careening litter as Wigg banked it hard to the right, trying
to make the dangerous turn. Zooming through the narrow bend, the litter righted quickly and tore
on in pursuit of the fleeing subtle matter.
Tristan strained his vision to try to make out the subtle matter, but the oncoming wind made
seeing difficult. Holding onto the litter for dear life, he inched his way closer to Wigg.
The strain showed clearly on the wizard’s face, forcing Tristan to wonder how much longer Wigg
could keep them aloft. No one knew what effect the azure water might have on humans should
they crash into the channel, and the prospect terrified him. Inching closer, he placed his mouth
near Wigg’s ear.
“Can you see the subtle matter?” he shouted.
“Yes!” Wigg shouted back, the wind whipping violently at his hair and robe. “But it still gains
ground! When we reach the wreck we must decide!”
“I know—we must either carry on after the subtle matter or stop and view the wrecked ship!”
Tristan answered. “But the ship is going nowhere! We must keep after the subtle matter at all
costs!”
“Perhaps!” Wigg answered, every fiber of his being trying to summon yet more power into the
speeding the litter. “But I’m nearly exhausted! If we crash into the azure water, no one knows what
will become of us!”
As another sharp bend approached, Tristan considered Wigg’s warning. The subtle matter was
important, he decided, but it wasn’t worth their lives.
“Then put the litter down alongside the wreck, if you must!” he shouted.
Still trying to keep the subtle matter in view, Wigg nodded, then threw the litter around another
sharp bend, nearly driving the litter into the rock wall on the left-hand side. Then came another
quick series of sharp turns. During the third turn, the right leading corner of the litter struck the
rock wall, smashing part of the litter to bits. Most of the litter’s right side suddenly gave way and
tumbled into the azure water with a great splash. As Wigg desperately negotiated the next few
blind turns while also trying to keep up speed, the damaged litter rocked sickeningly, threatening
to throw everyone from its meager safety and into the sea.
As the litter rounded the next bend, the sidewalls started to narrow dangerously, adding another
threat to the pursuers’ plight. Then they were suddenly around the bend and chasing down
another length of straight channel. As the litter carried them along above the waves, Wigg, Tristan
and Tyranny finally saw the shipwreck in the distance. Looking farther, they saw something
else—something disheartening and totally unexpected.
They were fast approaching a dead end.
Like the channel walls, the rocky edifice at the channel’s end rose straight up out of the sea. Its
craggy surfaces reached all the way to the radiance stones lining the channel ceiling, and it
stretched from one side to the other, leaving no option but to stop the litter in midair. As Wigg
slowed the litter, Tristan scanned the wall. He could find no cracks or caves in it, telling him that
their journey to Shashida had reached an abrupt and unsuccessful end. Tristan and Tyranny
looked around for the subtle matter that had led them here, but it had vanished.
Using his last bit of energy, Wigg gently set the litter down atop the huge rock ledge in the
right-hand channel wall. The litter was dwarfed by the ledge and the great wrecked ship that lay on
it. As the three passengers left the wrecked litter, the two hundred armed Minions finally reached
this strange place. At a hand signal from Tristan they drew their dreggans and landed warily atop
the rocky shelf.
Tristan gave Wigg a sad look. “It seems that this is where our dream ends,” he said. “I had such
hopes…”
“You’re right,” Tyranny said. “We can do nothing but go back. If Khristos still waits for us on the far
shore, we will have to fight our way out of the Caves.”
“So it would seem.” Wigg replied. “But for now let us finish what we came here to do.” As Wigg
turned to look at the great wrecked ship, so did Tristan, Tyranny, and the hundreds of warriors.
Despite her ravaged condition, the vessel remained magnificent. Easily the size of the
Tammerland, she rested on her port side, just as the young Night Witch had reported. Her hull
seemed cannibalized, as though her hull ribs and timbers had been chewed on by some great
unknown beast. In some places, parts of her ribs still arched away from her gunwales like
wizened fingers. Broken masts and sail spars lay everywhere atop the rocky ledge, and battered
and torn sailcloth draped her topside like dingy burial shrouds.
Like those of the Tammerland and the Ephyra, her timbers were dark as night. Seeing such a
once magnificent vessel looking as if it had been fed upon by some ravenous creature was an
eerie feeling. As the wind blew through her wooden bones it whistled hauntingly, as if trying to
warn the audacious visitors to flee before they too came under the spell of whatever had done this
terrible deed.
Tristan walked to the wreck and reached up to touch one of the few remaining hull ribs. Ashen
flakes loosened from it to drift away on the channel breeze. Hoping to find more clues to the ship’s
history, he led Wigg and Tyranny on a long walk down her side and toward her stern. An
elaborately carved plaque affixed to her stern read Intrepidus.
“Is that Old Eutracian?” he asked Wigg.
The wizard nodded. “In our modern tongue, she would be known as the Intrepid.”
“She is easily as large as the Tammerland, and she shows similar lines,” Tristan said. “I think that
she was built from the same plans that you and the Directorate members used so long ago to
build your fleet against the Coven. Could she have been one of yours?”
Wigg shook his head. “No,” he answered. “We had no Black Ship by this name—although her
name could have been changed, I suppose. But I agree that she is much like the Tammerland
and the Ephyra.”
“You’re right.” Tyranny agreed. “But who built her? And how did she come to be wrecked on this
ledge?”
Wigg pursed his lips. “There are two possibilities,” he answered. “Either some great force threw
the ship here, or her crew purposely beached her.”
“Why would they beach her?” Tristan asked. “They could simply have reversed course.”
“Perhaps they didn’t have the chance,” Tyranny offered. “If they were being chased by something,
they mightn’t have had that luxury. One doesn’t exactly turn these great ships quickly. Besides,
the dead end meant that they couldn’t go on.”
“Well said,” Wigg replied. “But there might be another answer as well.”
“Such as…?” Tyranny asked.
Raising one arm, Wigg called the craft to send a narrow azure beam against one of the few
remaining hull ribs. He held the beam in place for a time, then moved it back and forth with a
sawing motion. Soon an end of the rib fell to the rocky ledge.
The three visitors and a host of curious Minions walked nearer. Nodding, the First Wizard pointed
at the smooth end of the rib. To everyone else’s surprise, its freshly exposed interior glowed
brightly with the distinctive hue of the craft.
“So the spells used to strengthen the Intrepidus remain in place,” Tristan said. “That’s surprising
after all this time, but it doesn’t explain your other reason why she might have been deliberately
beached.”
Wigg lifted an eyebrow. “Doesn’t it?” he asked. “I suggest you think again.”
Tyranny grasped the frightening possibility before Tristan. “It’s because of the azure water in the
channel!” she exclaimed. “What we feared might happen to our ships happened to this one! The
water seeped into the Intrepidus’ hull and destroyed it little by little! That’s why it looks like it’s been
eaten away!”
Wigg nodded. “It would explain a great many things,” he said. “And if this is truly what happened to
the Intrepidus, the future doesn’t bode well for the Tammerland and the Ephyra.”
“But we can fly our ships back,” Tristan argued. “With any luck, we won’t have to put down in the
water again.”
“True,” Wigg answered. “But for all we know, the Intrepidus was in the water for no longer than
were our ships—perhaps less. If this is what happened, I suspect that the damage is insidious,
eating the wood from the inside out. And if that’s true, then by the time the damage is seen it
might already be too late.”
“That could be what happened,” Tristan agreed. “But it still doesn’t explain how she came to be
beached this way.”
“As Tyranny said, if they were being chased and they encountered this dead end they might have
had no choice but to set her down on this rocky shelf,” Wigg replied. “In any event they would
have done everything in their power not to set her back down on the water. But when they landed
her on the ledge, her rotting hull gave way and she rolled over on her port side, marooning her
here forever. If her crew was being chased, they might all have been killed. If not, they probably
starved to death.”
“A precious Black Ship and her gallant crew, all lost,” Tristan mused. “What a terrible waste.”
Wigg placed his hands into opposite robe sleeves, then cast his discerning gaze up the side of
the great vessel that lay there like some monstrous beached whale.
“Don’t be so quick to mourn either this ship or her crew,” Wigg replied quietly.
“What do you mean?” Tristan asked.
“Although the Intrepidus was likely built and skippered by mystics, who’s to say that they were
Vigors practitioners?” the First Wizard asked.
“Do you have reason to believe that this ship was manned by Vagaries worshippers?” Tyranny
asked.
“Unknown,” Wigg answered. “But the possibility seems equally likely.”
“All of which raises other questions,” Tyranny said. “What freed the subtle matter? Or did it
somehow free itself? Why did it lead us here, and where is it now?”
Tristan took a quick look around but could see no trace of the beautiful material that had a mind all
its own. “It’s gone,” he said. “We can presumably fly our ships back through the channel and
reach the sandy shore, but what then? Without our subtle matter or a way to produce more, the
Tammerland and the Ephyra must be left behind. With no way to build cradles for them, they will
be forced to sit atop the waves and later suffer the same fate as the Intrepidus.”
“And if the Intrepidus perished because of the water, we dare not salvage anything from her,
because it might only make matters worse,” Tyranny said.
Wigg shook his head. “I disagree,” he countered.
“Why?” Tristan asked.
“Probably the only damaged parts of her were those that touched the water,” Wigg answered. “As
one looks at the ship from the waterline up, she seems sound.”
Before Tyranny could protest, the wizard quickly raised a hand, stopping her.
“But do not assume for a moment that we might dare to start dismantling her and taking her
lumber back to our ships,” he added. “I’m fully aware that such drastic measures would require
much fore-thought.”
Tristan was about to reply when a Minion officer came forward to salute him. “Pardon, Jin’Sai,” he
said, “but there is something you need to see.”
“What is it?” Tristan asked.
“Human remains,” the warrior answered solemnly. “And some that don’t look as human as the
others. We also found unfamiliar weapons and other war materiel.”
“Show us,” Tristan ordered.
As the officer led the way back across the rocky ledge and toward the the Intrepidus, Tristan soon
realized that the Minions must have flown up along her damaged hull and entered through one of
the many smashed windows to gain entrance to the ship’s interior. He resolved to do the same.
“I want three of you to fly us up the side and help us enter through the windows,” he said. “Then
you can lead us toward what you’ve found.”
The warrior saluted and beckoned two others near. They soon had Wigg, Tyranny, and Tristan in
their arms and were soaring up the black sides of the great ship.
Tristan found that viewing the ship from this perspective was an eerie sensation. He also guessed
that trying to navigate their way through the stricken ship would be even more disorienting, for they
would have to walk along the inside of the port hull as they searched her. Finally reaching the first
row of windows, the warriors helped the three explorers inside. They let Wigg, Tristan, and
Tyranny go and watched them slide down the interior wall until they reached the deck below.
Tristan was the first to go. Narrowly missing some overturned crates along the way, he skidded
down the wall feet first and landed with a thud against the joint where the wall met the deck. He
came to his feet to find that he was standing directly in the floor joint, and staying upright was
difficult. He then saw Tyranny and Wigg come skidding into the room in the same fashion. Finally
the Minion search party followed. As Tyranny and Wigg collected themselves and the warriors
formed ranks, Tristan looked around. Because of the brightly lit radiance stones shining down
from the cavern ceiling, the interior of the ship had ample light.
The room they had entered was huge, and its odd angle gave one the sensation of being drunk.
Because the Intrepidus lay on her port side at about a forty-five-degree pitch, everything was
cockeyed. Tristan realized that one could attempt to scale the sloping walls to reach the windows,
but after reaching only so far, he or she would invariably slide back down again to land in the joint
where the ship’s sides met the deck. Nearly all the objects in the room had tumbled toward the
joint to create a long line of debris that was piled high in many places.
It seemed that they had entered the ship’s armory. Tristan easily recognized the uses for the war
weapons he saw scattered about, but their designs were unfamiliar to him. Covered in dust and
dumped along the length of the floor joint lay examples of the most beautiful and exotic
craftsmanship he had ever seen. Some of the longer weapons like lances and spears still lay in
their holding racks lining the ship’s sides.
Then he saw some of the skeletons that the Minion officer had spoken of. They lay about in
strange poses as if they had been tossed there by the fates, their joints often broken and lying at
unnatural angles. To a man they wore magnificent gold breastplates and matching greaves and
gauntlets. Iron spears, metal shields, and odd-looking gold helmets with cheek guards could be
seen lying about. Strangely, the dust-laden images on the shields appeared to be eagles with
outstretched wings. The skeletons’ leather battle sandals and warriors’ skirts had long ago fallen
to dust, leaving little behind but faint imprints to tell Tristan what they had once been.
As everyone started exploring, Tristan walked a few paces forward while trying to keep his
balance. The task was not an easy one. Spying a sheathed sword still in the grasp of a skeletal
hand, he reached down to pick it up. As he did, the hand bones fell apart and the leather tooled
scabbard turned to dust, leaving behind only the metal weapon it had once protected. Wiping the
dust from the sword, Tristan held it to the light of the windows and regarded it with an expert eye.
The sword was beautiful and marvelously crafted. It was shorter than his dreggan, leading Tristan
to believe that it was made more for stabbing than for swinging. It seemed to be forged of soft iron
that had been strengthened with coal powder, a swordsmith’s technique that was also common in
Eutracia. But this was no Eutracian sword.
The two-sided blade still remained exceptionally sharp and had a V-shaped tip. Rather than a
blood groove running down the blade’s length, as on a dreggan, each edge of the blade sloped
gently upward to form a ridge running down the center, which would cause blood and offal to
slough off during battle. The rectangular hilt resting just above the silvery blade was made of solid
onyx. The handle was a cylinder of solid ivory with carved finger grooves that perfectly fit Tristan’s
grip. At the end of the handle was a round ball of shiny onyx that prevented the sword from
slipping from the bearer’s grip.
Lifting the sword higher, Tristan spun it several times through the air. It produced a distinctive hum
not unlike that of his dreggan, and because of its shorter length it whirled faster. The sword was
impressive, perfectly balanced and no doubt very costly to produce. To whom this sword had
once belonged he could not know, but one thing was certain. From the looks of their weapons and
armor these dead soldiers had once been a force reckon to with, perhaps easily rivaling the
expertise and savagery of his Minions.
As he lowered the sword, Tristan noticed an inscription on the blade. It read:

CARNIFEX MARCUS
LEGIONUS XXIII

The inscription had no meaning for him. Looking across the tilted room, he saw Wigg examining
one of the many dusty skeletons.
“Wigg!” Tristan called out. “Please come here!”
Wigg looked up and carefully wended his way over to where Tristan stood. As the wizard neared,
Tristan held the sword up.
“What do you make of this?” he asked.
Wigg shrugged. “They’re everywhere,” he answered. “They’re finely crafted, but that one doesn’t
look different from the others.” It seemed clear that Wigg found the skeleton he had been
examining far more interesting than the sword and that he wanted to return to it. “Is this the only
reason you called me over?” he asked.
“This one has writing on the blade,” Tristan answered. “Can you tell me what it says?”
His interest piqued, the First Wizard took the sword into his hands and held it up to the light.
“Carnifex Marcus, Legionus Twenty-three,” he muttered thoughtfully. After thinking for a few
moments he handed the sword back to Tristan.
“The root of the word carnifex likely signifies ‘murderer’ or ‘scoundrel,’” he said. “And the word
legionus clearly means ‘legion,’ or some other variant of a word describing a sizable military force.
‘Marcus’ would be a man’s name. These markings doubtless identify the sword’s owner—one
Marcus, the great murderer of the Twenty-third Legion, or words to that effect. I suspect that if we
took the time to inspect all of these dusty old swords, we’d find that each one bears a similar
inscription. Where did you find it?”
Tristan pointed to the skeleton from which he had taken the sword. Wigg walked to it, then
beckoned Tristan to come nearer. Noticing what was going on, Tyranny wended her way through
the debris to join them.
Tristan and Tyranny grimaced as Wigg calmly bent down, grasped the skeleton’s head, and gave
it a sudden, twisting yank. After the neck vertebrae snapped, Wigg lifted the skull high and blew
the dust from it.
“I beg the Afterlife,” Tyranny muttered. “Why on earth did you do that?”
“It’s just as I thought,” Wigg said, his curiosity forcing Tyranny’s question aside. Holding the skull
out, he turned it to face them. As the empty eye sockets glared at them from the distant past, they
looked eerie, menacing.
“Does either of you see anything unusual about this skull?” Wigg asked.
Tristan was intrigued, and he walked nearer. There was something unusual about it, he realized.
The skull was highly elongated. He looked back into Wigg’s eyes.
“It’s oddly shaped,” he answered. “It doesn’t look entirely human.”
Just then the Minion officer neared. “This is what I was referring to earlier, Jin’Sai,” he said. “There
are many human skeletons here, and some look like this one. This armory is but one room. I can
scarcely imagine what we might find if we were to search the entire ship.”
“Why does the skull look like that?” Tyranny asked. “What was wrong with him?”
Wigg smiled. “There was nothing wrong with him,” he answered, “for a Blood Stalker.”
“That’s a Blood Stalker skull?” Tyranny asked.
“Yes,” Wigg answered. “Believe me—I saw enough of them during the Sorceresses’ War to
know.”
“What were Blood Stalkers doing aboard this ship?” Tristan asked.
“Serving their superior masters, I presume,” Wigg answered. “In any event, we can now be sure
of at least two things. First, this stalker was named Marcus, and he held the title of Carnifex. And
second, the Intrepidus was commanded by Vagaries worshippers, for only they employed Blood
Stalkers.” After setting the skull down, Wigg took another look around.
“If this ship could talk, her tales would surely be fascinating,” he added softly.
Just then Tristan heard several of the Minion warriors cry out, and he turned to look. The subtle
matter had returned and was flying into the armory through one of the many smashed windows
lining the tilted port hull. After all of it entered the room, the amazing substance gathered itself up
for a moment and hovered above the dusty weapons, armor, and skeletons. Then without warning
it divided into three distinct streams, and they headed straight for Wigg, Tristan, and Tyranny.
Tristan panicked as he felt the azure matter wrap around his waist and hold him fast in its iron
grip. In moments Wigg and Tyranny were similarly caught up. Before Tristan could cry out, the
subtle matter stream lifted him high into the air. Wigg and Tyranny soon followed him, and the
three of them could only look aghast at one another.
“Don’t fight it!” Wigg shouted as he watched the others struggle. “We have no choice but to obey!
If the subtle matter wanted to kill us, we would have been dead long ago!”
Tristan started to shout out something, but before he could, the subtle matter whisked him up
toward one of the smashed-out windows. Wigg and Tyranny watched in horror as the azure
powder dragged Tristan out through the window. Before he knew it, Wigg was taken out the same
way, followed by Tyranny.
Dazed and frightened, the wizard and the privateer soon found themselves hovering in the air by
Tristan’s side, directly over the narrow channel. Tristan could hear his warriors shouting from
inside the ship, and the many others still on the rocky ledge started desperately running as they
tried to come to the aid of their Jin’Sai. Some took to the air in an attempt to free Tristan from the
subtle matter’s grasp, but Wigg sternly ordered them back.
For several moments the three captives hung in space and looked at one another in terror,
wondering what might happen next. But before Wigg could shout out another warning, he got his
answer.
The three subtle matter streams spun their captives around to face the dead end. To their
amazement, the edifice started to rumble and thunder, just as had the rocky walls near the sandy
shore when they first rose to meet the cavern ceiling. The captives watched breathlessly as a thin
azure line formed down the center of the end wall. Then the wall began to part, its divided
surfaces magically receding into the side walls and sending tons of loose stone crashing down
into the channel. The terrifying space in between looked pitch-black and infinite.
Suddenly an awful wind arose, its force so strong that Tristan thought it might throw the Intrepidus
free of the rocky shelf and into the channel. The waves rose to many times a man’s height and
swayed violently to and fro, imprisoned between the unforgiving walls. Just when Tristan thought
he could take no more, a vortex suddenly appeared within the depths revealed by the parting rock
walls. It reminded him of Faegan’s portal, but this could not be Faegan’s work, for it was far larger
than any portal that Faegan could summon, and its color was much more dazzling.
Soon the howling wind and the whirling vortex had become so overpowering that the three
prisoners blacked out. As the wind tore at them, they hung unconscious in the subtle matter’s
grasp, and awaited their unknown fates.
Tristan was the first to be called. Without warning the subtle matter holding him flew directly into
the depths of the whirling vortex. His arms and legs flailing in the air, Wigg soon followed. Tyranny
went next. When the three were gone, the vortex disappeared and the rock walls rumbled shut,
leaving no trace of what had just happened. The terrible wind died, allowing the channel waves to
again find their equilibrium.
As the stunned Minions looked on, a deathly stillness crept over the channel, the rocky ledge, and
the mysterious ghost ship that lay upon it.

TRISTAN AWAKENED GROGGY AND DISORIENTED. HE WAS lying prone, and he had no idea
how much time had passed since he had been pulled into the vortex. His vision was fuzzy and his
head swam sickeningly.
Raising himself up on his elbows, he saw several figures standing before him, but their images
were too hazy to distinguish. He tried to look around to find Wigg and Tyranny, but his blurred
eyesight failed. He shook his head, trying to clear his vision.
Fearing that he had entered Rustannica, he sat up groggily and reached behind his right shoulder
to grasp his dreggan. To his horror, he found that his sword and his throwing knives were gone.
He also realized that his clothing had been changed. He now wore a dark blue silk robe wrapped
oddly around his body. His knee boots were gone; in their place, thick socks and wooden thong
sandals clad his feet.
“You will not need your clumsy physical weapons here in the People’s Palace, Jin’Sai,” he heard a
female voice say. “Please calm yourself. We mean no disrespect, but our magic is far more
powerful than that of your Conclave mystics. You feel drugged because you are unfamiliar with
our vortex. We deeply apologize for any discomfort you might have suffered, but it was the only
way. The feeling will pass, and your vision will clear momentarily.”
As he tried to see through the haze, Tristan thought he saw one of the figures raise a hand and
point it at him. At once his eyesight began to improve.
First the cloudiness disappeared, then his double vision cleared to reveal a scene of startling
beauty. The room in which he lay was magnificent in its exotic splendor, and the woman who had
just used the craft to aid his eyesight was remarkably beautiful. Her long dark hair was piled atop
her head in a strikingly unusual way, and a silken robe wound around her body revealed a
tantalizing hint of the graceful figure that lay beneath it. Several more women dressed the same
way stood beside her, their hands folded gracefully before them.
“Who are you?” he demanded. “What have you done with my friends?”
“They are well,” the woman replied. “Because of the strength of your blood, you are the first to
awaken.”
“Where am I?” he asked.
The woman bowed deeply from the waist. As she did so, the others followed suit.
“You are safe,” she answered as she remained bowed in his presence. “You are the first Jin’Sai
to reach our side of the world, and your arrival has long been anticipated.”
Rising and looking into Tristan’s dark eyes, she smiled. “Welcome, Jin’Sai,” she said. “Welcome
to Shashida.”

CHAPTER XXXV

Sadly, more often than not the difficult thing to do is also the right thing.
—MASHIRO OF THE HOUSE OF CRANES

AS TAMMERLAND BURNED AND THE CRIES OF HER TERRIFIED citizens rose into the night,
Khristos’ lead viper looked around and smiled.
Just as the Viper Lord had planned, the surprised Minion patrols wandering the city had been no
match for the thousands of Blood Vipers that came slithering up from the depths of the Sippora.
Caught off guard, the winged warriors had fought well, but the vipers’ superior numbers soon
ruled the night. The lead viper knew that the alarm had gone out to alert the royal palace and that
the hordes of Minions camped there would soon arrive. He welcomed their coming, for the Viper
Lord’s plan depended on that very thing. As the heart of the city burned, the viper in charge of the
carnage slithered about, taking stock of the scene.
Hundreds of citizens and Minion warriors lay dead in the streets, their blood pooling in the gutters
and their bodies lying wherever they had fallen victim to the vipers’ talons, fangs, and venom.
Scores of buildings had been set afire by marauding Blood Vipers carrying torches. Winding their
bodies and tails around Tammerland’s many lampposts, the seething man-serpents slithered up
them to smash the glass globes and eagerly light their torches. The torches were then tossed
through the windows of shops and homes and the vipers gleefully watched them burn. Anyone
caught rushing from a burning building was summarily killed, and the many thatched roofs in the
city provided opportune targets as the torches tossed on top of them set them ablaze
straightaway. Many citizens with endowed blood were being ruthlessly gorged on while still alive,
their screams ringing out into the night as the vipers—once again hungry now that they had been
freed from the water—searched for fresh endowed livers on which to feed.
Despite the great destruction and bloodshed, it was not the Viper Lord’s plan to occupy the city or
to kill all its inhabitants. Seeing how many weak-minded mortals could be murdered meant
nothing to him, nor did the growing numbers of burning buildings. Killing Minions was
advantageous, but just as the main body of warriors arrived to relieve the city, most of the Blood
Vipers would slither their way back down the riverbanks to reenter the Sippora and escape
unseen. This would be no cowardly retreat, but a clever tactical maneuver.
To add believability to their charade, some vipers would be ordered to stay behind and fight to the
death. Their ranks would be enough to trick the Minions into believing that they needed to remain
in the city and fight on, but not so great that Khristos would miss them during the next part of his
plan. Viper sentries waited on many rooftops, constantly searching the southern sky. At the first
sign of Minion relief troops they would wave their torches, signaling that the retreat into the
Sippora should start.
As the carnage wore on, the lead viper also looked skyward. The Minions would arrive soon, he
realized. Turning back to survey the battle, he smiled once more. Hopefully enough time would
remain to kill the few surviving Minions and devour many livers of the endowed.
After ordering another viper to watch for their sentries’ signals, he hungrily slithered across the
dewy square and used his talons to rip into a young man’s corpse.

BY THE TIME SHAILIHA AND HER FORCES ARRIVED, TAMMERLAND’S center was nearly
destroyed, and fires were spreading outward in every direction.
From her place in the litter she gazed out aghast over a sea of flames. Dead humans and Minions
lay everywhere. Vipers voraciously fed on human victims as others madly set fire to yet more
buildings. Heartened by their success, the grotesque monsters writhed about each other in a
sickening orgy of victory. As her litter neared the scene, the princess pulled her sword from its
scabbard, gripping it so hard that her knuckles turned white.
Faegan, Abbey, and Aeolus rode with her. Flying alongside, Traax commanded the bulk of the
Minions, while Duvessa led her specialized cadres of female warrior-healers. At Traax’s
suggestion, only a skeleton force had been left behind to guard the palace and the Redoubt. As
they neared the battle, the rising smoke choked their lungs, and terrible screaming could be heard
as its chilling tenor rose into the night.
Our people are dying down there, Shailiha thought. My failure to find and kill Khristos and his
forces has brought this tragedy on us. But now the fight is finally joined. Khristos’ rampage must
end here and now, on this night of nights.
Shailiha signaled her troops into the fray. Their dreggans flashing, thousands of Minions swooped
down to tear into the seething vipers, while Faegan and Aeolus loosed azure bolts at the
monsters with everything they had. The battle was joined.

KHRISTOS WAS THE FIRST TO STEALTHILY BREAK THE SURFACE of the river. His timing
was perfect and his resolve unshakable. Smiling as he looked across the water, he realized that
Gracchus’ plan was proceeding perfectly.
While thousands of his vipers waited unseen in the murky depths, Khristos surveyed the area.
Just as Gracchus had told him, the palace lay near the river bend. Between the river and the
palace lay a great field, its dewy expanse providing the huge area needed to contain the great
Minion war camp. Untold lines of shadowy war tents seemed to stretch forever into the distance,
their openings flapping gently in the nighttime breeze. Just as Khristos had hoped, it seemed that
every available warrior save for a few sentries had been called out to quell the mayhem raging in
the heart of the city. Quietly turning around in the water, he confirmed the orange-red glow in the
sky.
Looking back, he saw the royal palace standing west of the campsite, its many lit torches shining
down onto its barbicaned parapets. The moat surrounding the castle looked deep and tranquil,
and the drawbridge had been raised and locked into place between its twin gate towers. To an
untrained observer the magnificent structure would surely appear unassailable, but on this night
that perception would be wrong. Even so, the largely unprotected palace and the many treasures
it housed were not Khristos’ first goals. Looking to the south, the Viper Lord smiled again as he
spied the first of Gracchus’ targets.
The two magnificent Black Ships that Tristan had left behind sparkled in the moonlight as they
rested in their massive wooden cradles. Khristos’ heart leapt as he realized that only a handful of
Minion sentries guarded them. Without the great ships, the Jin’Saiou’s ability to hunt him down
would be greatly curtailed, and she could no longer sail across the Sea of Whispers. These ships
would therefore be Khristos’ targets.
Following Gracchus’ orders, he would set fire to one and steal the other, filling it with his vipers
and then using it to his further purposes. Having fought and sailed alongside Failee during the
Sorceresses’ War, he could empower Black Ships as well as any mystic alive. But even he could
fly only one ship at a time, so the other must be made useless to the Jin’Saiou here and now.
These things must be done quickly, before Shailiha and her Vigors mystics realized that the battle
in the square was a diversion and hurried back to the palace. The time was right, the setting was
all Khristos could have hoped for, and Gracchus’ plan was ready to be executed.
Submerging again, Khristos waved his thousands of vipers forward. They would quietly climb the
riverbanks, then slither silently on their bellies through the tall grass to flank both sides of the
Minion camp and rush in to dispatch the remaining sentries. Soon after, the warriors guarding the
ships some distance away would follow their brothers into the Afterlife. If both attacks succeeded
quickly and quietly, those in the castle would perceive no threat until one Black Ship was in the air
and the other was in flames.
As the magenta moonlight gently licked the waves of the Sippora, Khristos and his vipers started
to surface, their huge numbers slithering up the dark riverbank like a menacing tide.

SWINGING HER SWORD IN A PERFECT ARC, SHAILIHA SLICED its blade through the throat of
another attacking viper. The thing stood frozen in time for a moment before falling to the
cobblestones, dead where it lay.
Daring to lower her sword for a few precious moments, the princess found that her arms were
leaden and that her lungs clawed to capture each new breath. Her mind wanted to keep fighting,
but more and more her body refused to obey. She and her forces were exhausted, and to her
dismay, seemingly endless hordes of vipers still poured around street corners and down dark
alleyways to come and challenge them. The princess’s face and body were peppered with blood
and offal, and she knew that her muscles would soon give out. Even so, like her comrades, she
had no choice but to fight on. Faegan and Aeolus were somewhere on the far side of the square,
still loosing azure bolts, their fingertips long since blackened and singed. The acolyte and
consular cadres who had followed in separate litters were doing the same all across the macabre
urban battlefield.
Shailiha took a quick look around to see that the Minion corpses seemed at least equal in number
to those of the vipers that had been blown apart by azure bolts or cut down by Minion swords or
returning wheels. As more Minions landed in the streets, terrified citizens ran madly in every
direction as they tried to escape the raging vipers.
Shailiha desperately hungered for a battle report, but Traax had not yet brought one to her, forcing
her to wonder if her valiant commander was dead. She knew that to effectively lead this fight, she
must understand what was going on around her. But in all this madness, finding Traax seemed
impossible. Shailiha had lost track of Abbey long ago, and she had yet to see Khristos. Not finding
the Viper Lord worried her, but aimlessly searching through the raging battle would surely get her
killed. Knowing that she must learn how her troops were faring, she realized that there was only
one way to do it. She would take to the air again and view the battle from above.
Just as she was about to summon some warriors to her side, Shailiha saw another viper coming.
She instinctively backed up and lifted her sword high with both hands, readying herself for its
attack. Then the deadly viper unexpectedly stopped short and glared directly into her eyes. With
its talons outstretched and its strong tail coiled up beneath its humanlike upper body, the thing
ominously levered high into the air, then looked down on her and let go a menacing hiss.
Standing her ground, Shailiha knew what the monster would likely do next, for she had seen it
happen dozens of times this terrible night. Rearing back, the viper would suddenly launch at her,
its talons and incisors flashing as it came. Holding her ground, the Jin’Saiou summoned her
courage and defiantly glared back.
But rather than charging, the Blood Viper opened its mouth wider, hissing again and exposing its
forked tongue. Only too late did Shailiha sense the danger and swivel to one side. As the viper
spat its venom, the shock of seeing the acidic poison fly through the air was so great that the
danger seemed to come at her in slow motion. Even so, she could not move fast enough.
The green substance flew through the air and hit the left side of her face. Smoke immediately
rose from her burning skin, and the pain ripping through her eye was unimaginable. Screaming
wildly, she covered her stricken face with one hand while trying to hold onto her precious sword
with the other. But the pain was too much and she fell to the bloody square, her sword slipping
from her grasp to rattle down onto the bloody cobblestones. Sensing his chance, the viper moved
in for the kill.
Slithering forward, the thing reared up alongside Shailiha’s prostrate body to hiss viciously and
look down on its greatest victory. The liver of the Jin’Saiou would grant it inordinate power.
Bending closer, the thing curiously tilted its awful head back and forth as it luxuriated in the sight
of its terrible handiwork. Despite the many dangers surrounding the viper, it knew that this woman
of supremely endowed blood was the conquest of a lifetime, and he was determined to savor her.
First he would kill her slowly by strangulation; only then would he rip her open and take her liver.
Smiling, the thing spread wide its talons and reached down for Shailiha’s exposed neck.
He never saw the silver blur that killed him. Coming directly from behind, the Minion’s returning
wheel sliced straight through the thing’s neck, severing its head from its body without stopping.
Soaring on nearly unfettered, the wheel careened through the air in a perfect circle back toward its
master.
Reaching up, Traax expertly caught the bloody wheel in the leaded glove covering his left hand,
then quickly returned it to its resting place at one hip. Running with all his might, he abandoned
any thought of his own safety and tore across the chaotic square to kneel beside the stricken
princess. When he turned her over and looked at her face, the air rushed from his lungs.
Shailiha was near death, the left side of her face ravaged by the viper’s venom. Smoldering and
hissing, the terrible venom was still doing its awful work and burning deep craters in her skin.
Traax hurriedly removed a kerchief from beneath his armor, but when he tried to wipe away the
venom, the cloth also started to hiss and steam, forcing him to stop.
Reaching down, he touched the side of her neck. He found a heartbeat, but its rhythm was weak
and slow. Just then the Jin’Saiou started to regain consciousness, and her burned eyelids
fluttered open. Screaming and writhing in exquisite pain, her one good eye beseechingly looked up
at Traax. As she did, the Minion commander tried his best to hide his shock.
Shailiha’s left eye had been nearly destroyed.
The eyeball was pitted and glassy, and vitreous fluid ran from it, crazily tracing down her severely
pockmarked cheek. Traax could easily tell that the eye was blinded, and he sadly guessed that it
would never again see the light of day. As her good eye moved frantically about, her damaged one
did not copy its movements, telling Traax that the muscles of the affected eye had also been
damaged by the viper’s venom.
Screaming again, Shailiha madly reached out to grasp Traax’s shoulders. There was only one
thing to do, he realized. Quickly overpowering her with his strong arms, he wrestled her back
down atop the bloody cobblestones.
“Forgive me…” he said quietly.
Reaching out, he used two fingers of one hand to find the carotid artery on the right side of her
neck, and he pressed hard. Eight seconds later the princess was again unconscious. Picking her
up in his arms, Traax unfolded his strong wings and took to the air.

“IS SHE DEAD?” AEOLUS ASKED.
Faegan did his best to wipe the tears from his face, but even more came to take their places.
“Yes,” he answered simply, his voice little more than a tremulous whisper. Taking his eyes from
the shrouded body lying before him, he sadly looked around.
After much hard fighting, the battle had finally been won. The last of the Blood Vipers had been
corralled, and incensed Minions were eagerly beheading them on Faegan’s orders. Khristos had
not been among the dead, nor had anyone reported seeing him. That realization continued to
deeply worry Faegan despite his overwhelming grief.
He and Aeolus had loosed azure bolts at the enemy until they had nearly collapsed with
exhaustion, killing hundreds of vipers in the process. The acolytes and consuls who had also
rushed here from the Redoubt had killed many more. Four loyal acolytes and seven worthy
consuls lay dead, not to mention the still uncounted Minions who had also perished. Each
surviving mystic had suffered venom burns and talon wounds, some of them serious.
Much of the stricken neighborhood remained aflame, but the Minions were battling the fires.
Faegan watched as throngs of citizens wandered aimlessly through the bloody streets in search
of loved ones. The sounds of crying children, neighing horses, wildly barking dogs, and groaning
citizens and Minions still filled the air. Duvessa and her warrior-healers were doing everything they
could to stem the suffering, but they too were exhausted and could only do so much. The gutters
ran red with blood, bodies and body parts littered the shiny cobblestones, and hungry flies were
already gathering atop the corpses. As the news of the singularly important death spread, all the
surviving mystics and hundreds of spent Minion warriors had congregated to mourn the shrouded
corpse lying in the street.
Faegan wearily moved his chair closer. Her courageous death will long be remembered, he
realized, and her life’s story would resonate in everyone’s consciousness for longer still. How can
we possibly tell Tristan and Wigg about our failure to protect her? he wondered. Will either of them
ever trust us again? Still unable to believe, with a trembling hand he reached down and pulled
back the makeshift shroud.
Abbey had died quickly, they told him. She was last seen fighting three vipers at once, and she
had succumbed to their attacks before Minion warriors could reach her. She bled out quickly from
the viper talons that had slashed at her throat, then she had fallen to the ground, where her
innards were ravaged by the terrible beasts. Finally some frantically struggling warriors reached
her and ensured that the vipers responsible for her death had suffered horribly before being killed.
Faegan looked down at her face with bleary eyes. The herbmistress and partial adept had been
instrumental in defeating Wulfgar and Serena, and in ensuring that the Vigors had not perished
from the earth. Many of the people gathered here owed their lives to her several times over. She
had been a handsome woman, with long dark hair lightly streaked with gray, a strong jaw, and a
shapely figure. The only partial adept on the Conclave, her specialized use of the craft would be
sorely missed. Faegan had enhanced her time enchantments so that her body would not
immediately fall to dust, even though she had been more than three centuries old. Raising his
head, Faegan looked out across the carnage-ridden neighborhood.
Wigg will be inconsolable, he thought. Because I am his oldest friend, the grim burden of telling
him should fall to me. But how does one do such a thing?
Just then Faegan saw a Minion warrior approaching in the night sky. As the warrior neared, the
wizard saw that he carried someone, the victim’s arms and legs dangling lifelessly earthward. On
finally recognizing the warrior and his charge, Faegan’s blood ran cold.
Traax landed before the crowd and quickly handed the princess over to Aeolus.
“You must help her!” he shouted urgently.
As Aeolus and Faegan stared in horror at Shailiha, the blood drained from their faces. “What
happened to her?” Faegan demanded.
“She was struck by viper venom!” Traax answered. “It continues to burn her even now! But I fear
that her eye took the worst of it!”
“Hand her to me!” Faegan shouted.
As Aeolus quickly laid the princess in Faegan’s lap, Faegan looked at the burns and pockmarks
on her face. Calling the craft straightaway, he induced a spell over the venom to try to stop it from
doing further damage. He also called another spell to help control her pain and to keep her
unconscious. Then he carefully lifted the damaged lid of her left eye. He closed his own eyes and
bowed his head in sorrow.
“How bad is it?” Aeolus demanded.
“Very bad, I fear,” Faegan answered. “We might be able to help her, but to do so we must hurry
back to the palace. There is no time to lose!”
Seeing Abbey’s corpse for the first time, Traax took a sharp breath. “Is she—?”
“Yes,” Faegan answered. “We can no longer help her. Shailiha is now our greatest worry.
Summon a litter at once! Half of our forces will remain here and continue to quell the fires and
help the wounded as best they can. The rest of our warriors will accompany us home. Duvessa
and her group will remain here as well. Go and give the orders! We must leave now!”
As Traax hurried off, Faegan reached down and removed the gold medallion from Shailiha’s
person and placed it around his neck. After doing so, he sadly rocked the princess in his arms,
just as he might cradle a child who had been taken mortally ill.
“Why did you take her medallion?” Aeolus asked quietly.
“I did it for both Tristan’s and Shailiha’s sakes,” Faegan answered. “There is no telling when
Tristan might again use his medallion to contact his sister. Do you want his next glimpse of her to
be like this?”
“I understand,” Aeolus answered. “But doesn’t Shailiha need to be wearing the medallion for it to
work?”
Faegan shook his head. “No,” he answered. “The needed spell is contained in the two medallions,
not in their wearers’ blood. That is why the Ones cautioned Tristan so strongly about not letting
the medallions fall into the wrong hands.”
“And you know how to call the spell?” Aeolus asked.
Before answering, Faegan cradled the stricken princess closer. “Yes,” he answered simply. “We
can only hope that Tristan does not contact us before we have had some time to try and help
her.”
Just then a litter arrived, its six stout warriors landing it quickly before the hushed crowd. With
Shailiha still lying in his lap, Faegan levitated his chair up and over the litter’s sides. Aeolus joined
him, and before they knew it they were soaring through the air toward the royal palace.
As the litter gained speed, Faegan looked down at the stricken princess’s face, then back toward
the fires that were finally starting to come under control. Keeping pace alongside, Traax and half
the exhausted Minion survivors accompanied the two wizards and their fallen leader. As they
hurried on, Faegan sadly closed his eyes.
You have won this day, Khristos, he thought. We killed many of your vipers, but Abbey is dead
and the Jin’Saiou will likely never be the same again. If it is the last thing I ever do, I will hunt you
down and kill you, I swear it. But where were you this night, you bastard product of the Vagaries? If
attacking Tammerland was so important, why weren’t you there, leading your vipers?
All at once the terrifying realization hit him, and Faegan took a sharp breath. Looking over at
Traax, he barked out new orders as fast as he could.

THE MINION SENTRIES DIED QUIETLY. AFTER SLITHERING on their bellies up the banks of
the Sippora, Khristos’ vipers had quietly flanked the camp. They then closed the circle to surprise
and kill the unsuspecting sentries by first blinding them with their venom and then slitting their
throats. Some of the warriors had seen them coming and fought back, but the several hundred
Minions were no match for the thousands of Blood Vipers that commanded the element of
surprise. Confident that the palace had not been alerted, Khristos again motioned for his vipers to
slither their way through the dewy grass toward his next targets.
Watching from the safety of the camp, the Viper Lord wished he was going with them. But he
would hold back where he could not be seen from the palace’s parapets. Nor could he use his
silver staff to help his servants kill the Minions guarding the Black Ships, for that would certainly
cause uproar among those warriors guarding the palace. While he stood alone among the Minion
dead, his servants expertly went about his bidding.
Fifty warriors patrolled the area surrounding the two Black Ships, and they died as quickly and as
quietly as had their more numerous brothers who had guarded the war camp. When one of his
lead vipers slithered back to whisper news of their success, the Viper Lord rushed to where the
others waited for him. As he looked up at the great ships, he knew that he must hurry in his
mission, for once it started, those Minions left behind to guard the palace would surely see what
was happening and attack him.
The Cavalon and the Illendium rested peacefully in their massive wooden cradles, their hulls and
masts twinkling beautifully in the night. Deciding to steal the Illendium, Khristos ordered his vipers
to stealthily board her in the darkness. Silently slithering their way up the cradle spars, the
thousands of monsters took possession of the great ship.
Once they had all boarded, Khristos would remain on the ground as he empowered the ship into
the air. Only after he had taken the Illendium a safe distance away from the palace grounds would
he set fire to its mate, then fly through the air and land on the Illendium’s topside to spirit her
away. Those vipers that had secretly left the battle in Tammerland to slink back into the Sippora
had been ordered to travel submerged downriver. Only after they were well away from
Tammerland would they again surface to meet and board the pirated Illendium. Satisfied that his
vipers would soon be aboard his new flagship, Khristos turned his attention to the Cavalon.
She was equally beautiful, and in a strange way he almost regretted having to destroy her.
Knowing that he must hurry, he looked back at the Illendium to see one of his lead vipers signal
that all his servants had boarded, and he smiled when he saw their huge numbers crowding the
gunwales and slithering quickly up the masts. With no time to lose, he raised his arms and called
the craft.
At once the Illendium’s black and red dark sails tumbled free of their spars. Expertly manipulating
the craft, Khristos then summoned the first of the powerful forces that would lift the great ship and
send her skyward. Her hull groaning and her masts straining against the pull of the sails, she
slowly left her cradle to rise into the night air. Moving his hands, he expertly guided her to a safe
distance from the Cavalon, then set her hovering. With the Illendium airborne, he again gathered
up his power to finish off the Cavalon.
Raising his silver staff, Khristos pointed it at the great ship. Because of the many enchantments
used by her builders to protect her, setting her afire would not be a simple feat, but once she
started burning, her ages-old timbers would become a raging inferno. Summoning all his
remaining power while also causing the Illendium to hover, he loosed the first azure bolt from the
tip of his staff.

AS FAEGAN AND AEOLUS NEARED THE PALACE AND SAW THE first of Khristos’ bolts strike
the Cavalon, their worst fears were confirmed. How could we have been so blind? Faegan asked
himself. Cursing the heavens, he pounded his fists against the sides of the litter.
Worse, Shailiha still lay unconscious in his lap, her fragile soul barely clinging to her wounded
body. If she didn’t receive treatment soon, the venom coursing through her bloodstream would
surely kill her. Even so, Faegan didn’t dare hurry her into the Redoubt for fear that the palace had
also been overrun.
Then they saw the Illendium hovering in the air, and even from this distance they could see that it
was filled with Blood Vipers. With one Black Ship taken and the other destroyed, the Conclave’s
ability to defeat Khristos would be drastically weakened—perhaps to the point that the Viper Lord
could savage all of Eutracia at will. The death and destruction that he could cause with even one
Black Ship at his command, while the Conclave had none with which to counter him, would be
unstoppable.
As Khristos’ next bolt struck the hull of the Cavalon, Faegan started to doubt his assumptions
about what the Viper Lord was trying to accomplish. Trying to destroy a Black Ship with azure
bolts could be done, but it would take a long time—more time than Khristos had available. And
then Faegan understood fully. Khristos was trying to set the Cavalon ablaze. Shouting out to the
Minions, he beseeched them to fly faster and take him within range of the Viper Lord.
Seeing the Minion forces cross before the three magenta moons, Khristos cursed, then loosed
another bolt against the mighty ship. The first two had been largely ineffective, but the third highly
concentrated beam sent against the same spot finally sent wood shards flying from the Cavalon’s
starboard side, and smoke started drifting into the air from the jagged wound that had formed.
Khristos had little time before the enemy would be on him, and he knew that he must work fast if
he and his vipers were to escape in the Illendium. He quickly backed away from the ship to gain a
different perspective.
Khristos pointed his staff directly at the Cavalon’s mainmast. At once her furled sails were set
free and went tumbling down. Knowing that the sails were far more vulnerable to fire than were
the ship’s timbers, he loosed a narrow bolt from his staff to thunder straight toward the exposed
mainsail. At once it burst into flames, then started setting fire to the others around it.
Laughing into the night, Khristos caused all the other sails to come rolling down and quickly set
fire to them as well. Returning his attention to the smoldering hole in the Cavalon’s starboard hull,
he quickly loosed bolt after bolt against it, finally setting it ablaze. But just as he was about to join
the Illendium and fly her away, the litter bearing Faegan and Aeolus appeared in the night sky.
Soaring toward the Illendium, the Conclave wizards seemed determined to stop her from
escaping before attacking Khristos or trying to save the burning Cavalon.
Knowing that he could not defeat both wizards at once, Khristos cursed aloud. He realized that if
he was to escape with the Illendium, his best course would be to board her quickly and spirit her
away. While the Cavalon burned, Khristos quickly made for the riverbank.
As they neared the Illendium, Faegan and Aeolus understood the unfolding disaster all too well.
The Cavalon was burning, and their badly outnumbered and exhausted Minions couldn’t retake
the Illendium without suffering unacceptable losses. Cursing his decision to leave half the
warriors behind in the center of Tammerland, Faegan looked at Aeolus.
“If we deal with the Illendium first, do you believe that we can then save the Cavalon from
destruction?” he shouted.
As the fires raged aboard the Cavalon, Aeolus anxiously tried to decide. He desperately wanted to
save the burning ship, but the threat from the viper-laden Illendium was great. If the Illendium
turned to attack the palace, the vipers aboard might well take it. Of equal worry, the ghostlike Viper
Lord might escape them yet again. While Traax and the throngs of exhausted warriors hovered
alongside the wizards’ litter, they desperately hoped for an order that would send them to attack
the vile creatures that had commandeered the Illendium.
“Perhaps!” he shouted back at Faegan. “With Shailiha incapacitated, you are in command! What
are your orders?”
Faegan decided that there was but one course of action. It was drastic, and once he set the
needed spell into motion there could be no going back. Clearly the vipers must be dealt with first,
and in a way that would cost the fewest Minion lives. The Conclave could continue battling
Khristos without the Black Ships, but not without enough warriors. His mind made up, he looked
at Aeolus.
“I’m going to call the spell!” he shouted. “There seems no other choice!”
Aeolus gave Faegan a grim look, then nodded. Harsh as the crippled wizard’s decision was,
Aeolus could also see no other way.
“Very well!” he shouted back. “But you must allow me and the warriors to start trying to save the
Cavalon! If the fires advance farther we will surely lose her!”
“I understand!” Faegan shouted back.
Looking over at Traax, Faegan barked out a series of sharp orders. Unable to believe what he just
heard, Traax gave Faegan a searching look.
“You want us to retreat?” he demanded. “But the enemy hovers directly before us. They’re
taunting us to attack! I beg you to let us finish this here and now!”
“No—you will follow my orders!” Faegan angrily shouted back. “There are not enough of you to
win, and Khristos knows it! Take Aeolus into your arms and then order all your forces to obey
him! You must do your best to save the Cavalon! Leave only my litter bearers behind! You are to
also order a patrol into the palace to see if it is safe! If so, the princess must be immediately taken
to the Redoubt!”
Although he could not fathom Faegan’s logic, Traax had no option but to obey. “I live to serve!” he
shouted. Scooping Aeolus up in his arms, the Minion commander shouted a series of orders to
his troops, and they all flew toward the stricken Cavalon as fast as their wings could take them.
Left hovering in the night air with only Shailiha and his litter bearers, Faegan looked across the
night sky toward the Illendium. Soon after the discovery of the subtle matter and the decision that
two of the Black Ships would try to sail across the Azure Sea and find Shashida, Tristan had
insisted that his Conclave mystics combine their knowledge to devise a unique spell—one he
hoped he would never be forced to use. Even so, he ordered that it be infused into every Black
Ship and readied for immediate use should their path lead them to Rustannica and the Pon Q’tar
rather than to Shashida and the Ones. It was that same spell that Faegan would now be forced to
call forth. It remained untested, for summoning it successfully would have produced the direst of
consequences. As he hardened his heart, Faegan raised his arms.
Summoning all his power, he recalled the elegant series of calculations. Straining and shaking, he
finally loosed the spell that had been laid deep into the age-old timbers of the Illendium.
The resulting explosion seemed to tear apart the heavens. Bursting from the inside out, every rib,
beam, mast, spar, and other bit of wood that was the Illendium ruptured mightily in a massive
azure detonation of the craft. As the shock wave and debris reached Faegan’s litter, for several
awful moments the wizard was sure that the warriors bearing it would lose their grip. Yet despite
the awful concussion, the warriors held fast.
When the great ship exploded, so too did every Blood Viper aboard her. Soon blood and bits of
flesh rained down, and Faegan, Shailiha, their litter, and the warriors bearing it were covered with
the awful stuff. Leaving behind no surviving part of the Illendium larger than a matchstick, the
cacophony finally subsided as tons of debris fell to the ground. As the smoke cleared and the
Minion bearers regained control of the litter, only the nighttime sky remained where the mighty
Illendium had hovered moments before.
Lowering his hands, Faegan sadly looked around. The enchantment for the Illendium’s
self-destruction had worked well. Although he had killed every Blood Viper aboard her, he felt little
sense of accomplishment. Shouting out a new set of orders, he told his bearers to take him and
Shailiha to the palace as quickly as he could.
From his place by the river’s edge, Khristos watched the unexpected explosion with mixed
emotions. He had lost many vipers this night, and he had failed to take the Illendium for his own.
But the Conclave he so hated had lost much more. Many of their warriors had been slaughtered;
one Black Ship was destroyed, and fires still raged aboard the other. Had he also known that the
wounded Jin’Saiou lay near death, he would have judged the night a near total success. Smiling,
he walked down the riverbank and entered the Sippora to join the rest of his forces waiting
downstream.
Moments later he was gone.

CHAPTER XXXVI
AS TRISTAN FOLLOWED THE FOUR WOMEN DOWN THE elaborate hallway, his mind reeled
with unanswered questions and tempting possibilities. Having lived his entire life in the royal
palace, he was well acquainted with opulence. But that had been in Eutracia, and this was a
different world. The farther he walked, the more he realized that nothing in his experience could
have prepared him for Shashida.
The room in which he awakened was amazingly luxurious, and he guessed that it was only a brief
taste of the splendor he would find elsewhere. The floor was made of solid onyx and the walls
were built from an unfamiliar blue stone that sparkled with a life of its own. The bed had been fitted
with sumptuous silk sheets, and a diaphanous canopy was stretched from its four marble posts.
Fluted pilasters adorned the walls and an elaborate fountain graced the center of the room, its
tumbling water creating a wonderfully soothing sound. Dappled sunshine streamed in through
skylights in the gilded ceiling overhead.
After Tristan rose from the bed, the four women graciously asked that he follow them. On leaving
the room, they began walking down a long hallway. The women had not told him what purpose
this wondrous building served or where they were headed, only that he was being taken to their
masters. As he walked, he was glad to realize that the dizzying effects of the vortex were gone
and his eyesight had returned to normal. Eager to finally come face to face with the supreme
masters of the Vigors, he dutifully followed the mysterious women onward.
Each of the women sent to fetch him was young and beautiful, with long black hair that hung
down to her shoulders like strands of pure silk. Colorful long-sleeved embroidered robes wrapped
their bodies and reached all the way to their ankles. Open-toed wooden thong sandals graced
their feet, and their faces had been lightly brushed with a pale powder. Tristan found their
appearance immensely attractive, and he admired their polite but commanding behavior.
The hallway down which they trod was opulent. The walls were white and the elaborately
patterned carpet dark red, its luxurious fibers so thick that it seemed he was walking on soft
grass. Golden candelabra graced the walls every few meters, and an enticing aroma of fresh-cut
mint hung in the air. Tristan hoped to see more Shashidans along the way, but aside from himself
and the four women, the hallway was deserted.
After a long walk they reached an intersection where eight hallways joined. On one side stood a
pair of tall black lacquered doors, their intricately carved panels adorned with representations in
gold of exotic birds and animals the likes of which Tristan had never seen. On reaching the doors,
the four women turned and bowed.
The one who had addressed Tristan earlier stepped forward to look at him. Her large, dark brown
eyes seemed full of mystery.
“They await you,” she said simply. “On behalf of all Shashidans, we welcome the Jin’Sai into our
midst. We have anticipated your coming for aeons.”
With a wave of one hand she called the craft, and the lacquered doors swung open. As they did,
she stepped back among the other women, and they again bowed.
Still unsure of how to behave in the women’s presence, the Jin’Sai bowed in return. “Thank you,”
he said quietly.
Eager to learn what lay beyond, he walked into the room, and the doors closed behind him. The
moment he stepped into the magnificent chamber he knew that he was about to learn the
answers to his many questions.
The room was large, about twenty meters square. In its center stood a magnificent round table
fashioned from exotic wormwood. Twelve men and women sat there. Several more chairs stood
empty.
Like the room where Tristan had awakened, this room had a high gilded ceiling pierced with
skylights through which dappled sunshine streamed. The walls were of flecked alabaster, and the
floor was made of highly polished interlocking hardwood strips. The entire far side of the room
was an open colonnade, revealing a courtyard that held winding garden paths, exotic plants,
meandering streams, and burbling fountains. Exotic paintings hung on the walls, along with ornate
tapestries. Gold vases and other priceless decorative items also adorned the room, and
crystalline wind chimes hanging in the garden trees sent a soothing melody into the chamber. It
seemed apparent that this room served as a meeting place.
As if they were of one mind, the twelve strangers stood and bowed deeply to him. Tristan counted
six men and six women. Each was dressed in an elaborate robe much like his own, with two
exotic-looking swords held against their waists by silk sashes. The swords were unlike those he
had seen on the wrecked ship, reaffirming that the armor and weapons he saw there had been
Rustannican. Most of the people looked very old, with gray hair and deeply lined faces, but two of
them looked his age.
Still unsure of the proper etiquette, Tristan bowed in return. As eleven of the people sat down, one
of the older men remained standing. Their leader, Tristan guessed.
The man’s hair was stark white and pulled back from his forehead to form a short queue secured
with a gold ornament. A large white mustache graced his upper lip, its ends drooping downward
past his chin. The deep lines carved in his weathered face spoke of a fully experienced life. His
body appeared muscular and lean, and his blue eyes gleamed with wisdom.
He was dressed differently from the others, his more elaborate clothing further suggesting his
status as their leader. His magnificent silk robe was deep red with bright yellow cranes
embroidered into its fabric. Over the robe he wore a sleeveless long black silk tunic, its wide,
pointed shoulders extending past his body on either side. Like Tristan he wore dark socks with
open-toed wooden thong sandals.
The two swords secured at his left hip were beautiful creations. The upper sword was short, and
the lower one longer than its brother by about one-half its length. Each gently curved wooden
scabbard was lacquered in black and adorned with intricately painted red butterflies resting on
delicate tree branches. The swords’ oblong hilts were made of onyx, and their ivory handles were
slim and intricately wound with black cord. In the spaces among the crisscrossed cords lay small,
finely crafted gold ornaments that Tristan guessed would allow for a better grip and tell the
sword’s owner when his hands were properly situated for fighting. As the man looked at Tristan,
he smiled warmly.
“Welcome, Jin’Sai,” he said reverently, his voice strong and firm as an old oak tree. “My name is
Mashiro of the House of the Yellow Cranes. So that you can understand us, while in your
presence we will speak only your native Eutracian dialect. Like your fellow countrymen we have
chosen to recognize ourselves by mentioning our family house, even though those living in
Rustannica have long since abandoned that custom. In the name of our people, we twelve
humble Vigors mystics welcome you to Shashida. Collectively, you know us as the Ones Who
Came Before. You have endured much to reach us, and you and your two friends are the first
from your side of the world to do so. We are immensely grateful for the suffering that you have
endured to help ensure the survival of the Vigors.”
Tristan was about to reply when the doors behind him swung open. Turning to look, he saw Wigg
and Tyranny enter the room. Each of them was dressed as he was. When they stepped into the
room, their faces quickly mirrored the same awe and wonder that Tristan’s had shown when he
first entered.
Relieved, he hurried toward them. “Are you all right?” he asked urgently.
The First Wizard and Tyranny nodded. “Yes,” Wigg answered for both of them, “but it took time to
overcome the effects of the portal. I have never experienced such an overpowering use of the
craft. When we awoke we were dressed in these clothes. Then some women escorted us here. It
also seems that my pain is gone and my burns are fully healed.”
After looking around the room, Wigg’s eyes settled on the twelve people at the great table. “Are we
in Shashida?” he asked reverently. “Are you the Ones Who Came Before?”
Mashiro bowed. “You may call us that,” he answered, “although we prefer another name for our
humble group. You have our apologies, my friends. We understand that you are unaccustomed to
our higher uses of the craft, but once you reached the channel’s dead end, our portal was the only
safe way to help you complete your journey. It is much like the portal your wizard called Faegan
uses, but ours is infinitely more powerful. We also took the liberty of treating the First Wizard’s
injuries.”
“You know who we are?” Wigg breathed. “How can that be?”
Mashiro smiled again. “In truth, we know all about you,” he answered, “and we are intimately
familiar with the many trials you have suffered. There is much to discuss, and at long last your
questions will be answered. Please come and sit at our modest table.”
The three visitors did as they were asked, with Tyranny sitting on one side of Tristan and Wigg on
the other. Tristan looked over at Tyranny to see that for the first time since he had known her, she
seemed truly dumbstruck.
As Mashiro took his seat, Tristan wanted to pose question after question, but he realized there
was no hurry. He had finally reached Shashida, and his heart told him that everything he so
hungered to know would come to light soon enough. Forcing back his need to speak, he looked
around the table.
Regardless of age or gender, the twelve ultimate masters and mistresses of the Vigors were
immensely imposing. Mystics like Wigg, Faegan, Aeolus, and Jessamay all projected a sense of
calm power. The Ones were also august, Tristan realized, but far more so. Ten of them looked
immensely old, like Mashiro, but one woman and one man looked more like Tristan’s age. As
Tristan focused his attention on the younger-looking woman sitting across from him, he took a
sharp breath.
She was a truly arresting creature. Parted on one side, her hair was long, straight, and black, lying
atop her shoulders in undulating waves. Her face was sensual, with even features and a strong
jawline. Sleek eyebrows rested above dark brown irises that lay partly hidden beneath their upper
lids, and her lips were full and finely drawn. Rather than cheapening her natural beauty, her faint
blue eyeshadow and deep red lipstick accentuated her loveliness. The light blue robe that
crisscrossed the swell of her breasts was embroidered with graceful images of multi-colored
flower blossoms.
“Forgive me, Jin’Sai,” Mashiro offered. “I must introduce you and your friends to the other
members of the Chikara Inkai. Because we usually speak an advanced dialect of Old Eutracian,
our names will no doubt sound odd to you.”
“This group is called the Chikara…Inkai?” Tristan asked.
Mashiro nodded. “In your dialect it means Vigors Council. Just as you have your Conclave and the
Rustannican Empire has its Pon Q’tar, we have our Chikara Inkai, or simply the Inkai. One or
more members of the council can also be referred to as Inkai. The people you see here are the
world’s greatest Vigors mystics, duly elected by the Shashidan populace to oversee the nation
and to conduct the War of Attrition. Shashida is divided into ten provinces that we govern. Each of
the people here represents one such area, and the designs you see on their robes portray
something for which their prefectures are particularly well known.”
As Mashiro introduced each Inkai member, the names did seem strange to the three visitors.
When the time came to name the beautiful woman sitting directly across from Tristan, Mashiro
called her Hoshi of the House of Lotus Blossoms, and he said that she was the supreme
commander of the Shashidan armies. The young man seated beside her was introduced as the
first admiral of the Shashidan armada.
At first Tristan was surprised that younger people held such important posts. Then he reminded
himself that in the maze that was the craft, one’s perceived age was meaningless. When Hoshi
was introduced to the Jin’Sai, she bowed slightly, but she did not speak.
As if suddenly embarrassed, Mashiro’s expression darkened. “Forgive me, Jin’Sai,” he said. “You
and your fellow Conclave members must be hungry and thirsty. Would you like to dine as we
talk?”
Not wanting to delay the conversation, Tristan shook his head. “We can eat later,” he answered.
“But we could do with some wine, if it please you.”
Smiling, Mashiro nodded. “We have something better,” he said.
Mashiro clapped his hands and three servants appeared through a side door. Two men and one
woman entered, each dressed in a silk robe and bearing a silver tray laden with silver pitchers
and handleless cups. As they served everyone, Tristan noticed that the liquid they poured was
steaming. Tristan picked up his cup and smelled its contents to find its aroma deeply pungent and
unlike anything that he had smelled before. After everyone was served, the servants left the room
as swiftly and quietly as they had come.
Tristan looked over at Mashiro. “Might I ask what this is?” he inquired.
Mashiro smiled. “It is called umake,” he said. “It is a distilled spirit that is laced with seasonings
and best served hot. One must be careful of its potency, especially at first. Our blood is
accustomed to umake, but yours is not.”
Tristan, Wigg, and Tyranny each gingerly took a sip of the heady liquid. Closing his eyes, Wigg
swallowed hard. Despite her love of spirits, Tyranny coughed outright, producing smiles from
some of the Inkai. But Tristan, accustomed as he was to drinking harsh Minion akulee, found the
brew to his liking.
Putting down his cup, Mashiro looked at the three visitors. To Tristan’s surprise, the Inkai leader’s
expression had grown serious.
“Before we tell you of our world, we must inform you of recent developments in Eutracia,” he said.
“What you are about to hear will disturb you, but that cannot be helped.”
Immediately concerned for those he left behind, Tristan stiffened. “How can you know what
happens on our side of the world?” he asked. “Are you in communion with one of my mystics?”
Mashiro sadly shook his head. “No, Jin’Sai,” he answered. “At this moment none of your mystics
possesses the needed forestallment. Like the Pon Q’tar, we have an Oracle in our service. What
the Orb of the Vigors sees, she also sees. It has been this way since the earliest days of the War
of Attrition.”
Intensely interested, Wigg leaned forward. “What is an Oracle?” he asked.
Mashiro smiled. “I appreciate your curiosity, but there will be ample time to discuss matters of the
craft,” he said. “First you need to hear us out. I am sorry to tell you that one of your Conclave
members has been wounded and another has been killed. You have our deepest condolences.”
Tristan felt his stomach lurch. Shailiha, he feared. After quickly turning to look at Wigg and
Tyranny, he cast a worried gaze back toward Mashiro.
“Who are they?” he breathed.
“The Jin’Saiou has been gravely injured, but she lives,” Mashiro answered. “The Viper Lord
attacked your capital city of Tammerland. She was struck in the face by viper venom and blinded
in one eye. Of greater worry is that the venom still runs through her bloodstream. Your wizards
Faegan and Aeolus are tending to her as we speak, but her fate remains uncertain.”
Heartbroken, Tristan buried his face in his hands and fought back his tears. After several quiet
moments passed he took another much-needed swallow of umake, then looked back at Mashiro.
“Who was killed?” he asked, his voice little more than a raspy whisper.
Mashiro sadly turned his gaze toward Wigg. “Abbey of the House of Lindstrom died while fighting
off the Blood Vipers,” he said quietly. “We are deeply sorry, First Wizard. Each Inkai member
knows how much you loved her.”
For several moments Wigg’s eyes widened and his jaw worked up and down, but no words
came. As his eyes welled with tears, he suddenly cried out and reached for Tristan, burying his
face in the Jin’Sai’s shoulder. Tristan held the ancient wizard as Wigg’s tears came freely and his
body shuddered with the terrible news. Stunned by what he had just heard, Tristan turned to look
at Mashiro.
“What of my sister?” he asked. “Will she live?”
“That is unknown,” a female voice said from across the table. “It is only because of her
extraordinary blood quality that she still clings to life. But hope remains, however dim.”
Tristan looked across the table at the woman who had just spoken. He remembered Mashiro
introducing her as Midori of the House of Snowy Mountains. Her white hair was long and her green
eyes kind, and her dark brown robe was embroidered with snowy mountain peaks resembling the
Tolenkas. Like Mashiro, expressive lines creased her ancient-looking face.
Trying to collect himself, Wigg looked blankly around with tear-filled eyes. He still trembled, but
now the cause was pure rage.
“Did Abbey suffer?” he asked.
“I will not lie to you, First Wizard, because that is not our way,” Midori answered sadly. “Yes, she
suffered before dying. Even so, you can be assured that the vipers that killed her suffered far
more before your Minion warriors ended their lives. But I regret that there is more to tell you. We
possess these facts because I am the Oracle to whom Mashiro referred earlier.”
“What is an Oracle?” Tristan asked again.
“Aeons ago and long before the War of Attrition started, twin baby girls of right-leaning blood were
born here in Shashida,” Mashiro answered. “Like your wizard Faegan, they were born already
possessing a very rare gift of the craft. In Faegan’s case, it is his gift of Consummate
Recollection. Here on this side of the world, the twin girls were born as seers, or Oracles. What
the Orb of the Vigors overlooks, the Oracles also see. But their visions do not occur constantly.
They happen only when an important use of it is made, for it seems that the orbs are drawn to
such occurrences.”
“Fascinating,” Wigg said. “Where is Midori’s sister?”
“Her name is Matsuko,” Midori answered sadly. “During the civil war engineered by the Pon Q’tar,
Gracchus spirited her away. She has been his prisoner ever since. We have no doubt that he
forces her to use her gift in the name of the Vagaries, just as I use mine in the name of the Vigors.
It is my deepest wish to someday see her freed.”
“So this is how you know so much about our side of the world,” Wigg mused. “For many
centuries, Midori has informed you.” Thinking, Wigg sat back in his chair.
“This explains much,” he added quietly.
“Yes, but as I said, there is more to tell you,” Midori replied.
“What is it?” Tyranny asked.
“Not only were many of your minions killed, but the Illendium has been destroyed and the Cavalon
burns,” another Inkai member answered.
This time the voice was male. Tristan, Wigg, and Tyranny looked over to see the man who had
been introduced as the head of the Shashidan armada. His name was Renjiro of the House of
Daggers.
Renjiro was a handsome man of about Tristan’s age. As was seemingly the custom among
Shashidan men, his dark hair was pulled back from his forehead to form a short queue held in
place with a gold ornament. But unlike the other men at the table, Renjiro had shaved the top of
his head, leaving hair only on the sides. The effect was chilling and rather fearsome.
His robe was made of black silk embroidered with beautiful silver daggers. Renjiro radiated a
particularly powerful sense of self-discipline, and as he again sipped his umake, his movements
were smooth and economical, leading the Jin’Sai to wonder whether Renjiro possessed the gift
of K’Shari. But whether Renjiro commanded K’Shari or not, Tristan recognized an accomplished
warrior when he saw one, and he had no doubts about Renjiro’s abilities. Aghast at the loss of two
of his Black Ships, Tristan turned to look at Mashiro with unbelieving eyes.
“What happened?” he demanded.
“The Viper Lord’s attack on Tammerland was a diversion,” Mashiro answered. “Sadly, your
Conclave members were taken in by it. Tammerland was never Khristos’ real objective—the
ships were. He tried to steal the Illendium and then set fire to the Cavalon. Rather than see it fall
into Khristos’ hands, Faegan destroyed the Illendium with the subtle matter that your mystics
imbedded into its timbers. He also sent many Blood Vipers to their deaths in the process, but
Khristos escaped. Even now your forces try to quell the fires ravaging the Cavalon.”
“Where were Shailiha wounded and Abbey killed?” Wigg asked, his overpowering rage barely
allowing him to speak.
“In the Tammerland battle,” Mashiro answered. “They acquitted themselves well, of that you can
be sure.”
Tristan suddenly remembered the gold medallion hanging around his neck. Desperately wanting
to see his sister, he grasped it and turned it over. But before he could call the needed spell,
Mashiro raised a hand.
“It is best that you hear us out before you see the Jin’Saiou,” he said. “In any event, Faegan now
wears the medallion, and you would see only what he wishes.”
Although he was disappointed, Tristan followed Mashiro’s advice and let the medallion fall back to
his chest. “Why has Faegan taken Shailiha’s medallion?” he asked.
“He wishes to spare you needless heartache, Jin’Sai,” another Inkai member answered. “He also
wants to help Shailiha recover before you see her. Her feelings must also be considered.”
Tristan looked across the table at the man who just answered him. He had been introduced as
Kaemon of the House of the Rising Moons. He was ancient and bald, his hairless cranium shining
in the sunlight streaming down through the skylights. Three crescent-shaped magenta moons
adorned the left shoulder of his gray robe.
Tristan shuddered as he thought about his once beautiful sister and what she might look like now.
“Is it that bad?” he asked quietly.
“Yes,” Kaemon answered, “I regret to say that it is.”
“I know that the distance between Shashida and Eutracia is vast, but can you help her?” Tristan
asked Mashiro.
Reaching out, the ancient mystic patted Tristan on one hand. “You’re right,” he answered, “the
distance is indeed vast. Despite that, we have already taken action to help your sister.”
“How…?” Wigg breathed in wonderment.
“While the Jin’Sai was unconscious we used Tristan’s medallion to contact Faegan,” Mashiro
answered. Despite the serious subject matter, the Inkai leader let go a quick smile.
“As you might imagine, the wizard was amazed to see us,” he added. “We showed him some
enchantment formulas that should help Shailiha’s system fend off the viper venom. He and the
one called Aeolus are no doubt employing them at this moment. We can only hope that they are
not too far beyond your wizard’s abilities. They will find them puzzling at the least, but we daren’t
risk simplifying the enchantments too much, lest they become baffling and of no use at all.
Because we were not privy to the workings of Failee’s original spell that created the Blood Vipers,
we cannot ensure that our formulas will succeed. We also informed your Conclave that you
reached us safely.”
“And what of our two Black Ships and everyone still aboard them?” Tyranny asked. “Are they
safe?”
“Yes,” Hoshi answered, speaking in Tristan’s presence for the first time. Her voice had an alluring,
smoky quality that he found attractive.
“The ships and your people need to finish the journey here,” she added. “Because your forces
would probably not obey us, one or more of you will have to return to the waiting ships to inform
your crews. From there all your forces and your two ships can be brought here the same way that
you were.”
For the first time, Hoshi gave Tristan a smile. “My katsugai mosota are eager to learn whether
your Minions of Day and Night are everything that our Oracle says they are,” she added.
“Katsugai…mosota?” Tristan asked.
“You have forgotten yourself, Hoshi,” Mashiro gently admonished. “We must remember to speak
only the eastern dialect while among our guests.”
Hoshi bowed. “My apologies, Jin’Sai,’ she said. “Katsugai mosota is the Shashidan phrase for
‘loyal warriors.’ They would rather commit suicide than face the shame of defeat or dishonor.”
“I understand,” Tristan answered. “My Minions have sworn an oath that is much the same.”
Interested in learning more, he decided to press a bit.
“I have not seen your fighters in action,” he said, “but I’m sure that they are excellent. Even so, I
find it hard to believe that they could easily overcome the Minions’ great tactical advantage.”
Hoshi gave him a wry smile, showing that she appreciated his little boast. Undaunted, she leaned
across the table.
“You refer to the Minions’ powers of flight,” she answered.
“I do,” Tristan answered.
“A great advantage, to be sure,” she replied. “But can your warriors shoot a winging sparrow from
the sky with a bow and arrow at two hundred meters and never miss? Can they perform the
same feat with a thrown dagger, or accomplish both while riding a galloping horse? Are their
hand-to-hand combat skills so good that they can easily kill an enemy with one blow while
blindfolded?”
For several moments Tristan was awestruck by Hoshi’s boasts, but then he understood. Nodding,
he politely acknowledged what might be the Shashidan armies’ superior tactical advantage.
“Do all your katsugai command the gift of K’Shari?” he asked.
Realizing how quickly the Jin’Sai had uncovered the answer, Hoshi smiled again. “Only those with
endowed blood,” she answered. “They are our army’s most elite warriors.”
Leaning forward, Wigg laced his long fingers together. He was desolate over the loss of Abbey,
but he also meant to master his emotions in this august company. His mind awash with
questions, he looked at Mashiro.
“Tell me,” he asked, his voice still brittle. “Do the Rustannicans also speak the Shashidan
dialect?”
“By and large, no,” Mashiro answered. “Our dialect has evolved far more than theirs during the
aeons since Rustannica split away and became a rogue nation. And because so much time has
passed, our cultures have evolved in strikingly different ways. However, most Rustannicans who
hold positions of power are fluent in the Shashidan dialect.”
“I suspected as much,” Wigg replied. “The wrecked ship we found held Rustannican skeletons
and weapons. I was able to partly decipher some writing on one of the swords. It seems that they
once used Blood Stalkers in their campaigns. Do they use them to this day?”
“Yes,” Renjiro answered, “and with greater effectiveness than did the Coven of Sorceresses.”
Tristan was immensely eager to learn all he could about Shashida and Rustannica, but he knew
that the shocking news from home must take precedent. Looking around the table, he fixed his
gaze on Mashiro.
“We know who Khristos is,” he said. “But what we cannot understand is why he finally surfaced
again after all this time. What does he hope to gain?”
“At first his mission was solely to fulfill Failee’s mad need for revenge,” Renjiro answered. “She
condemned him and her embryonic vipers to a river in Hartwick Wood to wait in silence until she
called them forth. One droplet of left-leaning endowed blood entering the river was all that her
spell needed to release her former lover and his fully evolved servants. Like Failee’s vicious
Parthalonian Swamp Shrews, her vipers were to be a means of retribution against the Vigors
wizards should she lose the war. But because the First Mistress is dead and Khristos now serves
the Pon Q’tar, he hopes not only to destroy your Conclave and Minions, but to one day rule your
side of the world. Unless he is stopped soon, that might well happen.”
“What do you mean when you say that Failee condemned Khristos and the viper embryos to a
river?” Tyranny asked. “Surely some body of water cannot be where they waited for three
centuries, only to emerge now and wreak their havoc.”
“Ah, but it was,” Kaemon answered. “With the permission of my fellow Inkai, allow me to tell you
the tale. You will find it a fascinating one. Failee was nothing if not brilliant.”
For the next hour Kaemon explained Failee’s search for vengeance and conquest, including the
recent battle in Tammerland and Khristos’ attempt to steal one Black Ship and to destroy the
other. When Kaemon finished, it was plain to see that Wigg, Tristan, and Tyranny were deeply
troubled by the story. But it also explained many of the mysteries surrounding Khristos—not the
least of which was his ability to hide from the Night Witches, only to suddenly emerge elsewhere
to cause further mayhem.
Determined to stop Khristos at any price, Tristan leaned over the table and looked at Mashiro.
“Can the Inkai help my mystics in Eutracia defeat the Viper Lord?” he asked. “With so many
Minions dead, Shailiha injured, and the Black Ships useless, their ability to stop him has been
drastically curtailed. And although Faegan is an accomplished herbmaster, Abbey’s unique craft
abilities will be sorely missed. If there is a way to help, we must do so.”
“Although victory over Khristos cannot be certain, yes, we can help,” Hoshi said.
“How did Khristos know that we were going to cross the Azure Sea?” asked Wigg. “He and his
forces ambushed us there and we barely escaped with our lives.”
“We can only surmise that the Pon Q’tar ordered him to attack you in that place,” Mashiro
answered. “Most likely it was Gracchus who gave the order.”
“Gracchus?” Tristan asked.
Mashiro nodded. “As the lead Pon Q’tar cleric, he is my Vagaries counterpart in Rustannica.”
“What about the Azure Sea itself?” Tristan asked. “Wigg and I were told by the half–Blood Stalker
Ragnar that the sea was unexpectedly released when my son Nicholas further excavated the
Caves. He was trying to capture the energy from the Paragon as part of his plan to raise the
Gates of Dawn, and he nearly succeeded. Was Ragnar telling the truth?”
“No,” another Inkai answered.
Tristan looked to the right to recognize the woman who had been introduced as Tamika of the
House of Green Forests. A row of green pine trees was embroidered on her white silk robe. Her
long white hair had been wound atop her head with care, and black lacquered wooden sticks held
it in place.
“So Ragnar lied after all,” Tristan mused. “If that’s the case, was the Azure Sea always there?”
“No,” Mashiro answered. “Just as the Rustannicans have their Borderlands, we have our Azure
Sea.”
“I don’t understand,” Tyranny said. “Do you mean to say that you created it?”
“Yes,” the Inkai leader said. “The explanation is a long one, and it is probably best told later. For
now, suffice it to say that when we inhabited all the lands that are now known as Eutracia,
Parthalon, Rustannica, and Shashida, just after the sudden rising of what you call the Tolenka
Mountains, we became landlocked here in the west. Then Rustannica split away to become a
martial rogue nation. The Pon Q’tar conjured the Borderlands as a defense between our two
warring states. Once the mountains rose, the Caves became the only way for someone east of
the mountains to reach Shashida. And just as the Pon Q’tar felt the need to isolate Rustannica
from Shashidan incursion, we needed a way to prevent those of left-leaning blood from using the
Caves to invade Shashida from the east. You saw the rock walls rise from the Azure Sea
because the water detected the sudden presence of so much high-quality right-leaning endowed
blood. Part of the spell that we devised to conjure the sea also included the channel. If the azure
water detects sufficient power of right-leaning blood, the walls rise and guide its owners to the
rocky dead end where our portal can sense their presence and come to their aid. If the water
detects left-leaning blood, rather than forming a channel to the dead end the walls also rise, but in
that case they form a long, winding maze from which there is no escape. As the enemy is forced
to endlessly sail the maze they eventually die from dehydration and starvation. Although the
concept seems simple, its application was not, I assure you. The water did not detect Khristos’
left-leaning blood because unlike your group, he alone possessed it.”
“Amazing,” Wigg breathed. “But tell me—did Nicholas ever try to cross the Azure Sea?”
“We do not know,” Midori answered, “but it is unlikely. The quality of his blood would probably have
called forth the maze, and even he would have died while trying to navigate it. He likely knew
better than to try because he was in communication with the Rustannicans. In truth, Nicholas
knew much that he never told you.”
“But his hatchlings carried Wigg and me across the Azure Sea and delivered us to another area
in the Caves,” Tristan protested. “That is where Ragnar blinded Wigg and poisoned my blood.
Why didn’t the rocky walls rise while we were waiting by the shore? And how did Nicholas get
across the sea without the maze being summoned?”
“We might never know, but the walls probably did not rise because they did not detect sufficient
quantities of endowed blood,” Mashiro answered. “Much of yours and Wigg’s blood had been
drained to weaken you and make you more manageable. Had that not been the case, the walls
would have surely risen. As for Nicholas, we might never know the whole truth. But the Caves are
vast. He and Ragnar mightn’t have needed to directly cross the sea to reach where they awaited
you and Wigg. Instead, they might have simply found a way to go around it.”
“And the wrecked Rustannican warship that we saw beached on the rocky wall?” Tyranny asked.
“How did that get through the maze?”
“That was the first and last Rustannican vessel ever to do so,” Kaemon answered. “It was part of
a Vagaries strike force from the east that managed to get that far because at the time our spell
was incomplete. Far more Rustannican warships rest at the bottom of the channel maze, I
assure you. Like you, they used subtle matter to shrink their war vessels, allowing them to be
transported through the caves for use on the Azure Sea. It is interesting how minds of the
endowed often think alike, regardless of whether their owners’ blood favors the Vigors or the
Vagaries! Before our development of the formulas allowing for the maze, many great naval battles
took place on that Azure Sea.”
His mind awhirl, the Jin’Sai sat back in his chair. He knew that there remained a staggering
amount to learn about this side of the world and the people in it, and the mere thought of it all
seemed overwhelming.
Deciding that the time had come to put other questions aside, he resolved to ask about the great
personal mystery that had eluded him for so long. The first time he had used the vanished azure
pass to travel through the Tolenkas and reach this side of the world, he had learned that it was his
and his sister’s destiny to somehow stop the War of Attrition so that the practitioners of the Vigors
and the Vagaries might live together in peace, in one unified nation under the guidance of one
ruler. That ruler, he had been told, was to be him.
But in his heart he knew that there must be far more to this ultimate riddle. How could he—an
untrained person from a faraway land—ever hope to accomplish what these supremely august
mystics could not? Although he had defeated many enemies in the name of the Vigors, and he
was the only Jin’Sai to have reached this side of the world, the nature of what these people
required from him seemed impossible in the extreme. Summoning up his courage, he looked
Mashiro in the eye.
“It’s time that I was finally told about my true destiny,” he said. “My entire life has been leading up
to this moment. How is it that I might ever hope to accomplish all that you need from me?”
As if to tell Tristan that he understood the Jin’Sai’s frustration, Mashiro gave him a compassionate
look.
“As you already know,” Mashiro began solemnly, “the War of Attrition must be brought to an end.
We understand that you find it impossible to believe, but only the Jin’Sai can do it, for the Pon
Q’tar has no wish for peace. Even so, it is our wish that the two countries be unified under the rule
of your supremely gifted blood. But what you have yet to learn are the other deeds that must be
accomplished as well if your destiny is to be fulfilled. The world must be reunited as it was before
the outbreak of this terrible and costly war and the sudden rising of the Tolenka Mountains that
separated it.”
“What deeds are these?” Tristan asked.
For several moments Mashiro looked down at his hands. When he finally lifted his face he looked
first at Wigg, then Tyranny and Tristan. When his gaze met the Jin’Sai’s it was stern, resolute.
“What I am about to say will no doubt shock you,” he said quietly. “Nonetheless, it needs to be
heard.”
When Tristan did not respond, Mashiro drew a deep breath. As Tristan waited for Mashiro to
answer, the silence became deafening.
“With your help,” the Inkai leader said at last, “we mean to destroy the Tome and the Scrolls of
the Ancients and dismantle the craft as we know it.”

CHAPTER XXXVII
WHILE DESPERATE FIGHTING RAGED IN THE DISTANCE, Vespasian stood in his war tent.
Looking down at the table before him, he tensely consulted the freshly updated war map that
Lucius Marius had supplied to him only moments ago. Alongside the map lay several beeswax
diptychs that had been rushed from the front by hand-picked centurion messengers. The map
displayed the Imperial Order’s progress in taking the next Shashidan riverside town, while the
diptychs held detailed information about enemy soldiers and civilians killed, casualties suffered
among the Rustannican forces, and tallies of supplies, food, and arms both used and still flowing
to the front from the safety of Rustannica.
Vespasian was pleased with the progress of his war. So far his casualties had been surprisingly
light and great areas of Shashidan land had fallen to his legions, causing many of his tribunes to
believe that a great victory lay at hand. Even so, the same concerns that worried Vespasian when
he first conceived this campaign had started to surface again, and the Shashidan gold mines still
lay many leagues away.
Like previous Rustannican thrusts through the Borderlands and into Shashida, the distances to
objectives of real importance were vast and immensely difficult for so great an army to
traverse—even with the help of the azure portals. Should the Shashidans somehow negate the
use of his portals, his entire invasion force would become stranded in enemy territory. Worse, it
would take many years of marching to reach the Borderlands, then cross them and return home.
And because the Borderlands could not be summoned without killing his own troops as they
crossed them, Shashidan forces could harass them every step of the way, killing them off little by
little.
Therefore it was imperative that Vespasian’s overland escape route be fiercely protected. This
meant that the lands already taken had to remain in Rustannican hands for the duration of the
campaign, forcing valuable troops and materiel to remain behind in strategic places along the
way. The sands in the hourglass of war were falling quickly, he knew. If the Shashidan mines
were to be seized and held long enough to send at least some of their prized contents home,
Vespasian’s advance must not only take the entire area surrounding the Six Rivers and the lands
between them and the mines, but also hold them for as long as possible.
Lifting his gaze from the map, Vespasian looked out the tent entrance and toward the horizon.
The sun was starting to rise, bringing with it the promise of good weather. It will be a fine day for
killing Shashidans, he decided.
Gracchus Junius, Lucius Marius, Empress Persephone, and Julia Idaeus stood by his side
waiting to hear his daily orders. After the Twenty-third Legion’s Blood Stalkers had secured the
staging area near the headlands of the Vertex Mostim, Imperial Order legions and armed barges
had arrived by way of hundreds of azure portals. They then advanced south and subdued the first
few Shashidan towns along the banks of the Six Rivers. Soon they had reached the strategic
place where the Six Rivers joined to form one huge, rushing current known in the Shashidan
dialect as the Togogawa, or Abundant River. From there the Togogawa led to the gold mines.
Surprisingly, few Shashidan troops had been met, and the meager enemy forces trying to resist
Vespasian’s monstrous invasion had been swiftly overcome. While the Pon Q’tar and most of the
tribunes saw that as a good omen, Vespasian and Lucius Marius found it unnerving. Surely the
Inkai knew by now that Vespasian’s advance was no brief incursion to be taken lightly. So why
hasn’t the full weight of their armies rushed north to meet us? Vespasian wondered. As he looked
back down at his war map, that worrisome question and others like it gnawed greedily at his
self-confidence.
The Shashidan riverside city to which his forces currently lay siege was much larger than those
already in his hands. This was yet another hindrance to his war plan, for as his forces advanced
to the south, the cities became far larger and therefore more problematic to conquer. Because so
few Shashidan troops had been met, the first few riverside cities had been taken easily. But this
next city was protected by far more Shashidan troops than the others had been, and taking it was
chewing up more time than Vespasian had planned on.
Such delays might significantly lengthen his timetable and supply the Shashidan forces with
precious time to reinforce their troops that protected the gold mines. That was a turn of events
that Vespasian could not afford, for his plan depended on reaching and surrounding the mines
with lightning speed. At the same time all the captured lands north of his current position must
remain firmly in his hands should his forces need to retreat without benefit of the enchanted
portals. Of added concern was that given the specific direction of Vespasian’s advance downriver
and its markedly narrow east-west line of attack, the emperor’s goal would soon become clear.
If he was to take the mines, he must reach them soon, before the entire Shashidan army arrived
to stand in his way. Yet another worrisome possibility was that the enemy might postpone an
outright confrontation and instead flank his narrow thrust on its eastern and western sides. This
would allow them to at first avoid his forces, then turn and march directly toward each another. If
they could link up, they would split his forces in two and sound their death knell.
Moreover, with every step south, his supply lines became farther stretched. Food, soldiers, and
materiel from Ellistium still poured through the portals, but given the ever-increasing distance from
home, the supply situation might soon grow dangerously tenuous. Time was of the essence in
this campaign, as Vespasian had known from the moment he first proposed it to the Suffragat
that fateful day in the Rectoris Aedifficium.
Raising his gaze from the map, Vespasian turned to look at Lucius. “The battle for the next town
still rages?” he asked.
“Yes, Blood Royal,” Lucius answered.
Vespasian shook his head. “We are moving too slowly,” he mused. “There are few prizes worth
taking this far north, but to secure our route home, it must be done. And that, my friend, is the
confounding part of this war! We must capture and hold thousands of leagues of useless
grasslands before reaching objectives of substance. The best plan would have been to use the
portals to take our forces straight to the gold mines. But should the Shashidans somehow render
them useless, without having first secured an overland escape route home we would become
hopelessly surrounded in a matter of days.”
“That is true,” Lucius answered. “But we had no choice. If we don’t hold those lands and the
Shashidans negate our portals—”
“I know, I know,” Vespasian interrupted. “I have had enough of running this war from charts and
reports. I will visit the battle firsthand.” He turned to look at Persephone, Gracchus, and Julia.
“Wait here,” he said. “I will return shortly. Lucius, come with me.”
After grabbing up their helmets, Vespasian and Lucius left the war tent to become part of the
riotous scene outside. In the entire history of Rustannica there had been no greater invasion force
than this, and even now Vespasian remained awed by its sheer size and ferocity.
The empire’s colorful command tents stood atop a rise overlooking a gently sloping valley.
Through the rich green valley snaked the mighty Alarik River, or the Togogawa, as the enemy
called it. In some places the huge waterway measured over two hundred meters across, making
it a formidable force of nature. In the distance could be seen the burning Shashidan riverside town
to which the empire’s troops laid siege.
The town would eventually be taken, Vespasian knew. Then his forces could recommence their
advance downriver and seize the remaining towns standing in their way. Soon his invasion would
cross these broad, useless flatlands and reach a mountainous area through which the raging
Alarik flowed. According to Vespasian’s intelligence reports, it was there that the Shashidan mines
would be found, their massive deposits having been slowly laid bare as the Alarik spent countless
centuries carving its way through the mountains.
Hurrying to his chariot, Vespasian quickly jumped aboard, and Lucius followed suit to stand
beside him. Taking the reins from his horse handler, Vespasian snapped the whip, and his two
white stallions charged down the hill with the gleaming white and gold chariot in tow.
The awe-inspiring scene was like some bizarre warrior’s dream. While trumpets blared and
drums rolled, hundreds of thousands of armed legionnaires, bowmen, archers, and lancers
marched side by side in lockstep down the hill toward the enemy city in uncountable rows
measuring half a league wide. Dark Rustannican barges laden with yet more men and war
materiel sailed down the mighty Alarik to take part in the siege. Giant war machines engineered by
the Pon Q’tar sat in countless rows, their vast numbers quiet for now but threatening to pour forth
death and destruction at any moment. Monstrous war beasts conjured for this campaign
lumbered down the hill and cried out to one another under the watchful eyes of legionary animal
handlers, their huge numbers causing the earth to tremble beneath their feet.
North of the command tents lay countless square leagues of conquered grasslands, their endless
swells covered with the much-needed support mechanisms that sustained Vespasian’s
monstrous advance. Thousands of provision wagons and camp tents provided refuge and work
areas for the legions’ armorers, fletchers, cooks, surgeons, paymasters, prostitutes, and more,
their vast numbers stretching northward as far as the eye could see. Mammoth supply lines
snaked across the landscape to provide the goods, armaments, and manpower needed to
sustain the gargantuan invasion force.
Whipping his horses again, Vespasian continued down the slope toward the stricken Shashidan
town. He soon saw the flames that were ravaging the city and smelled the telltale odor of burning
flesh. As his legions parted to clear a path for their emperor’s chariot, the soldiers cheered and
saluted. Taking the reins in one hand, Vespasian saluted them in return.
Soon he and Lucius came upon yet more of the legions’ handiwork. Wanting to take a closer look,
Vespasian pulled hard on the reins and slowed his stallions to a walk, steering them rightward
onto a dirt road running alongside the Alarik River that led directly into the burning town. Like the
slope he and Lucius had just descended, the dusty road was choked with eager legionnaires on
their way to finish the job of destroying the city and killing what remained of the town’s inhabitants
and soldiers. As their chariot slowed, Vespasian and Lucius looked first to one side of the road,
then the other, taking in the results of the emperor’s imaginative orders.
No slaves would be taken in this war, Vespasian had decreed. This far from home, prisoners
were nothing more than liabilities to feed and care for, and no extra personnel or supplies were to
be made available for such useless compassion. But that did not mean that certain Shashidans
could not be put to good use.
To instill terror among the populace, Vespasian had ordered that his tribunes take several
thousand Shashidan civilians and soldiers alive. Their protracted deaths would serve as a
warning to those who would dare defy the empire. Looking along the opposing roadsides,
Vespasian reviewed those unfortunate Shashidans who had been chosen to serve as his object
lessons.
Thousands of long, sturdy timbers had been pounded into the ground along either side of the road
down which the legions thronged. Near the top of each timber, a shorter one had been placed at
right angles to the first and then inserted into a carved notch. Wooden plugs pounded through the
shorter timber into the longer one held the arrangement in place.
Naked Shashidan men—military and civilian alike—hung upside down from the sturdy
crossbraces. Their ankles had been tied to the ends of the crossbraces, and their bodies and
arms hung downward to face each other from opposite roadsides. With their legs widely splayed
and their blood rushing to their heads, their deaths from exposure to the elements would be slow
and agonizing. To prevent escape, legion officers segregated those with endowed blood, then
wiped their memories clean of the craft.
Many of these victims were already dead, but as Vespasian and Lucius kept going they soon
neared those who had been recently hung and remained alive. They would die soon, Vespasian
knew, for his legionnaires were strictly obeying the other part of his orders.
As the legionnaires walked by, from time to time they reached up with their spears or gladii to
poke at the dangling victims. Each of the countless jabs was to be short, clean, and expertly
done. The goal was not to kill the victims straightaway but to see how long they could survive
such exquisite pain. The stronger the subject was, the longer it took him. So as to prolong the
spectacle, Vespasian ordered that only healthy men be subjected to this traditional brand of
Rustannican butchery. The process was called mortem obirein incisurae, or “death by a thousand
cuts.”
To Vespasian’s amusement, one victim had the courage to shout an epithet as the emperor drove
by. Pulling his horses to a stop, Vespasian looked at him. The Blood Royal knew that he was a
Shashidan soldier because his unique battle armor had been stripped from him and lay scattered
by the roadside, and because of his unique hairstyle. Hundreds of bleeding wounds pierced the
man’s torso, face, extremities, and genitals. If the cuts were done right, the victims died from slow
exsanguination. But even the expert legionaries sometimes cut too long or too deep. If they did so,
the victims’ internal organs became exposed and eventually slipped from the body cavity to fall
earthward before their faces, making them the suspended prisoners’ last sight before dying.
So that the man might know his identity, Vespasian removed his helmet. Vespasian found that
staring into the man’s upside-down bloody face was a disorienting experience. Like all tribunes,
Pon Q’tar members, and Heretics, Vespasian spoke perfect Shashidan. Shaking his head with
disgust, he turned to look at Lucius.
“Such subhumans these Shashidans are,” he said. “Do you see how they persist in shaving their
heads? And what bizarre armor they wear!”
Vespasian again looked into the man’s eyes. “What is your name?” he asked in the man’s native
dialect.
The prisoner seemed to be somewhere near thirty Seasons of New Life, and despite his
wretched condition he possessed a modicum of vitality. Hatred filled his eyes as he stared back
at Vespasian. Like all katsugai mosota, the top of his head was shaved. The gold ornament that
usually held his queue in place had been stolen by some greedy legionary, allowing his long black
hair to dangle earthward. Rather than being a war crime, stealing the traditional gold ornament
was considered an extra payment for doing the dirty job of stripping filthy Shashidan barbarians
and hanging them from the makeshift crosses. Some of the more industrious legionnaires owned
hundreds of the gold trinkets, which they proudly displayed on their body armor or sent home to
their wives, lovers, or mistresses.
When the man did not answer, Vespasian moved his chariot nearer.
“I demand to know your name!” he shouted.
“I am Akeno of the House of Bamboo,” the man answered. Much to the emperor’s and Lucius’
surprise, the man smiled, his bloody lips bizarrely curving earthward rather than upward. The
effect was strangely chilling.
“I have recently come from the south,” Akeno said. “I prayed that I might live long enough to see
you ride by, you illegitimate Vagaries bastard. I am an acquaintance of the Inkai, and I have a
warning for you.”
Incensed by the Shashidan’s insult, Lucius immediately drew his gladius, but Vespasian grabbed
his arm. Clenching his jaw, Lucius grudgingly sheathed his sword.
“What is your message?” Vespasian demanded.
Once more the bloody inverted smile appeared. “The Jin’Sai is coming to Shashida,” the captive
answered. “He might already be among us. Rustannica’s days are numbered, Vespasian. If you
value your life and the lives of your troops you will stop this mad invasion and go home. You will
need every one of your vaunted legionnaires when the Jin’Sai comes for you and the barren
whore that is your empress.”
Although the news was highly valuable and Vespasian would later curse himself for not
interrogating the prisoner further, this time even he could not contain his rage. Summoning but a
tiny fraction of his power, Vespasian raised one arm and sent an azure bolt tearing toward the
dangling katsugai.
The bolt blew the man to pieces, sending blood and offal high into the air. The resulting noise was
so great that even the disciplined legionnaires marching by stopped to look. For several moments
Vespasian’s stallions reared violently, nearly sending the chariot tumbling sideways to the ground.
As the scene quieted, Vespasian glared angrily at the smoking, damaged cross. Save for wet
bloodstains and glistening bits of flesh and bone that still clung to the wood, the man had been
vaporized. Nor was there much left of the sturdy crossbrace from which he once hung.
Vespasian and Lucius watched as what remained of the torture device fell apart and tumbled to
the ground.
Realizing his mistake, Vespasian took a deep breath, then scrubbed his face with his hands. The
Shashidan’s warning had shaken him, and he was stunned by what he had just heard. Perhaps it
was only the Shashidan’s way of tormenting me before dying, he thought.
He turned to look at Lucius. “That was foolish of me,” he said angrily. “I should have ordered him
interrogated before killing him.”
Lucius shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps,” he offered. “But before we started this campaign the
Pon Q’tar assured us that the Jin’Sai cannot reach this side of the world. We must ignore the
dead barbarian’s babbling for the tripe that it was. Let us continue onward to the battleground.”
Vespasian nodded and took up his reins. “You’re right,” he answered. “We have larger concerns
than the mad ramblings of one dying katsugai who wished to insult me.” Taking up his whip, he
prepared to get his stallions moving again.
But just as Vespasian raised his arm he again felt the dreaded, all too familiar sensation
overcome him. Within moments his heart was racing wildly and cold sweat poured from his skin.
His muscles trembled uncontrollably, forcing him to drop the reins and whip.
Persephone, he thought desperately as he sensed his consciousness fading. Only she
understands…I must return to her before Lucius knows…and my troops…above all else, they
must not see their emperor fall…
Sinking to his knees, Vespasian realized that it was already too late. He weakly reached up to
grab at Lucius’ armor as the stunned First Tribune looked down at his lifelong friend in horror.
“My emperor!” he gasped. “What overcomes you so?”
“Take me back to Persephone!” Vespasian whispered. “Only she knows what to do! Hide me in
the chariot and be sure that no one else sees me like this—my fate is in your hands—above all,
do not let the Pon Q’tar see me this way…”
Finally losing consciousness, Vespasian collapsed to the chariot floor.
Nonplussed, Lucius looked around. Hordes of legionnaires still obediently passed by the chariot
on their way toward the battle scene. Some had surely noticed what happened, Lucius realized.
He also instinctively knew that whatever was wrong with his emperor, above all else, Vespasian
must be hurried away from here.
With Vespasian’s desperate pleas still ringing in his ears, the First Tribune reached down and
gently slid Vespasian’s limp body forward near the chariot’s riser where it would not be seen.
Then he quickly took up the reins and slapped them hard across the stallions’ haunches.
Wheeling the chariot around, he charged back up the hill.
CHAPTER XXXVIII
IN THE END IT WOULD TAKE THE PRINCESS OF EUTRACIA twelve hours to regain
consciousness. As her mind slowly sharpened, the last thing she could recall was looking up in
terror as the Blood Viper’s talons slashed down toward her throat. Moments later, a lesser degree
of the terrible pain that had ripped through her entire system, and especially her left eye, returned.
As her acuteness continued to strengthen, she took stock of her surroundings.
It was nighttime in Eutracia, and she lay in her private quarters. The royal palace and the
surrounding grounds were peaceful, with only the usual sounds of the night creatures wafting
through the air to keep her company. She was dressed in one of her nightgowns, and as she
came around, the pain that still racked her body, face, and left eye slowly rose. But I am alive, she
thought gratefully, although I may have no right to be.
She soon realized that her vision was deeply compromised; everything looked darkly shadowed
and her depth perception was markedly skewed. The effect was chilling. Because only one
candelabrum on the far side of the room was in use, her chambers looked unusually dark.
Perhaps that is why I cannot see as I should, she thought. Then she sensed an unfamiliar
pressure against her left eye.
Moving as best her sore muscles and joints would allow, she leaned over toward one bedstand
and grasped the hand mirror that always lay there. With a trembling hand she started to lift it
before her face.
But just as she did, an unseen power forced the mirror down and away. As though her arm
suddenly belonged to someone else, she felt an unearthly force press it down onto the bed. The
sensation was not painful, and she soon realized that there was no point in trying to fight it, for it
was born of the craft. Clearly she was not alone.
“I am sorry, Princess,” came a familiar voice from the shadows along the far side of the room. “I
thought it necessary that we talk before you see your reflection. I apologize for not removing the
hand mirror from your bedstand earlier. I should have guessed that it would be the first thing you’d
reach for after you awakened.”
Although Shailiha desperately wanted to see her reflection, she knew that there was no use in
arguing. The voice had been Faegan’s, and he would use the craft to enforce his wishes.
Because of how much he cared for her, his decisions would surely be in her best interests. But
unlike many times before, on this night she was not easily comforted by his presence. Clearly he
was preventing her from seeing her face, causing her to wonder just how bad her injuries were.
Like a spectator unable to take part in some drama she was watching, she saw the mirror slide
from her grip and float across the room to disappear into the shadows. After taking a deep breath,
she lay back on her silken pillows.
Moments later Faegan wheeled his chair from the shadows to come and sit by her bedside. He
looked tired and drawn, and her hand mirror lay in his lap. Although he tried to smile, even with her
hampered vision Shailiha could see that his cheerful expression was forced.
“How long have you been here?” she asked.
“Twelve hours,” he answered, “the same as you. I have been with you every moment since Traax
brought you to me. It was he who saved you from the viper.”
“How bad are my injuries?” she demanded. “You must tell me the truth if I am to lead Eutracia.
Like each of us, I am only as good as my limitations.”
In the flickering candlelight Faegan smiled again, and this time she thought that his expression
seemed more genuine. “You’re starting to reason like a sorceress,” he said. “I’m going to have to
be more careful around you.” In a silent attempt to avoid her question, he grasped her down
comforter and pulled it up a bit higher.
“You still haven’t answered me,” Shailiha insisted as she tried to sit up. But the strain of moving
suddenly increased her pain and she was forced to again lie back. Sighing, she closed her eyes
for a moment. As she did so, she felt the lashes of her left eye brush against something, and she
knew.
She turned toward Faegan and looked into his face as best she could. “I’m wearing an eye patch,
aren’t I?” she asked.
Faegan nodded.
“Is my left eye blind?” the princess asked quietly.
“Only you can answer that,” Faegan said. “In one more hour I will remove the patch and we will
know.”
“Why must we wait?” she asked.
“The Shashidan Inkai said that the enchantment would do its best work in thirteen hours,” he
answered. “The craft formula that they supplied to help heal you was the most elegant and
convoluted that I have ever seen. It took Aeolus and me two hours to grasp it, and even now we’re
not sure whether we applied it correctly.”
“The Shashidan Inkai?” Shailiha asked. “What are you talking about?”
Faegan smiled and placed his hand atop hers. “There is much to tell you,” he said. “And like most
news, only part of it is good.”
“Is Morganna all right?” Shailiha demanded.
“She’s fine,” Faegan answered. “Shawna looks after her.”
“Did we defeat Khristos?” the princess asked.
Faegan shook his head. “The Viper Lord and many of his servants escaped us again. I wish that I
could tell you that we gave as good as we got, but I can’t. The Illendium has been vaporized, and
although the Cavalon is repairable, she was severely damaged by fire. Khristos’ goal wasn’t to
take Tammerland or to see how many people he could kill. The attack on the capital was only a
ruse designed to draw the Conclave and our forces away from the palace so that he could steal
one Black Ship and destroy the other. I’m sorry to say that he nearly succeeded.”
Shailiha looked away in shame. “It’s my fault,” she said softly. “I ordered us straight into it.”
“No,” Faegan said. “We’re all to blame. Even Traax agreed that we needed to rush every available
warrior into the heart of Tammerland. But there is other news, Your Highness, and it grieves me
deeply to be its bearer.”
“Is it about Tristan?” she asked urgently.
“No,” Faegan answered. “He, Wigg, and Tyranny have finally reached Shashida and they are safe.
The others remain aboard the Black Ships. But during the fighting in Tammerland we lost a
valuable Conclave member.”
Shailiha closed her eyes. “Who…?” she asked.
“Abbey is dead,” Faegan answered. “I am sorry.”
Heartbroken, Shailiha sank lower in her bed. She had loved Abbey, as they all had. Then she
thought about Wigg and how badly her death would hurt him.
“Does Wigg know?” she asked.
“I can’t say,” Faegan answered. “As we speak, he, Tristan, and Tyranny are conferring with
Mashiro and the other Inkai members for the first time.”
“Mashiro…?” Shailiha asked. “That’s a strange-sounding name.”
“Indeed,” Faegan answered. “The Shashidan dialect contains far more idiosyncrasies than we
had imagined. In any event, Tristan, Wigg, and Tyranny were rendered unconscious when the
Shashidans took them into their portal to help finish their journey. While Tristan was unconscious
they used his medallion to contact us. They told us much about themselves, including how they
knew that you had been injured. But they cut the session short so that they could give us an
enchantment to apply to your blood. They promised that after their meeting with Tristan they
would contact us again.”
Despite all the bad news, a mischievous smile crossed Faegan’s face. “We’ve done it, Shailiha!”
he said. Slapping his hand against one knee he let go a self-satisfied cackle. “At long last we’ve
reached Shashida!”
Shailiha wanted to demand that Faegan tell her everything that he had learned about Shashida,
but her sense of duty returned to insist that the situation in Eutracia take precedence. Putting her
curiosity aside for the moment, she asked, “Has Khristos been sighted since the last attack?”
“No,” Faegan answered. “Even so, there’s good news regarding him.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
Faegan gave the princess a conspiratorial wink. “The Inkai know much about him,” Faegan
answered. “They explained how he appears and disappears at will and why he is trying to destroy
the Conclave. Because he is a Vagaries wizard, he feels compelled to destroy the Vigors but the
full answer goes far deeper than that. And as has so often been the case, the explanation has to
do with Failee.”
For the next half hour Faegan told the princess about how Khristos and the embryonic vipers had
been condemned into the river by Failee, how and why they had finally arisen after all this time,
and that the Inkai suspected that Khristos was now in the service of the Pon Q’tar. The Jin’Saiou
listened intently, hanging on the wizard’s every word. When he finished, she tiredly nodded her
head.
“That explains much,” she said. “But because they can hide in Eutracia’s many rivers and use
them to travel about unseen, finding and killing them will be very difficult. It’s no wonder that our
Night Witches couldn’t find them. They can seek refuge anywhere a river runs.”
“There’s more to the tale,” Faegan said, “but the Inkai did not relate it to us. They wanted to be
sure that you were looked after first. In any event, they said that they might be able to help us
destroy Khristos and his vipers—not by direct intervention, but in some oblique way. I can only
hope that they will tell us how when we next view each other.”
Just then Faegan and Shailiha saw an azure hue build on the room’s far side. The glow soon
revealed a large hourglass sitting atop a table. As Shailiha looked at it, she saw that a few
remaining sand grains were tumbling from the top globe into the bottom one. When the last grain
fell, the azure hue disappeared.
“The thirteen hours are up,” Faegan said. “It’s time to check your vision. Close both eyes. Do not
open them until I tell you.”
Shailiha’s heart hammered in her chest. With her eyes shut she saw only darkness. Is this all that
my left eye will ever see again? she wondered. Knowing that she must resign herself to whatever
Faegan wanted, she took a deep breath, then nodded her assent.
Faegan moved his chair closer and gently removed the dark patch and its strap from her face and
head. As the patch was lifted away, the temptation to open her eyes gripped the princess, but she
did as she had been told and kept them shut.
For several moments she felt Faegan’s fingertips gently explore her left cheek and eyelid. Waiting
in silence this way was torturous, and she desperately wanted to open her eyes and learn the
truth. Then she remembered that this was Faegan she was dealing with and that only what he
wished to happen would come to pass. As the maddening seconds went by she could only wait
and wonder. Finally his probing fingers left her skin.
“You may now open your eyes, Princess,” Faegan said. “Tell me what you see. Allow your vision
to adjust, and be in no hurry to answer.”
Hoping against hope, Shailiha opened her eyes. Several moments later her heart fell. To her
horror, her overall vision was worse than when she had worn the eye patch. The scene coming
through her left eye was milky, as if a white fog covered it. The vision in her right eye was fine, but
with her left eye so badly occluded, she found herself in the dreadful position of nearly asking
Faegan to put back the eye patch. Although while wearing the patch her depth perception was
flawed, at least the milky fog wasn’t visible. Tears welled up, but she grimly blinked them back.
Sensing the worst, Faegan looked at his hands. Soon the telltale shininess in his eyes rivaled
hers.
“Tell me,” he said softly.
“My left eye is blind,” she answered.
“Is it totally blind,” he asked gently, “or only occluded? The Inkai said that occlusions might persist
for a time before clearing, but there are no guarantees. Place your hand over your right eye and
tell me what you see.”
Shailiha did as Faegan asked. She looked around the room to find that she could see shimmers
of candlelight and irregular shapes mixed with the fog, but little else. After lowering her hand she
explained her findings to the wizard.
“Do not be discouraged,” he said. “As I said, the Inkai warned that this might be the case. In the
meantime I suggest that you wear the eye patch and let your damaged eye rest.”
“Before I do, I want the mirror,” she said adamantly. “I must know…”
After thinking for a moment, Faegan nodded, then reluctantly gave her the mirror. Shailiha raised it
before her injured face without hesitation. As the shock overcame her she took a quick breath.
At first she didn’t recognize herself. Her left iris had been invaded by a milky-white substance and
the skin around her eye was red and swollen. Then she looked at the left side of her face. Deep
red pock marks pitted her cheek, neck, and jawline. Closing her eyes, she lowered her head.
“The damage to your skin will heal,” Faegan said, “and the pain and stiffness in your joints and
muscles will eventually subside. But I cannot say what added progress your left eye might make.”
Finding that she had no words, Shailiha only nodded. When she had first realized that she was
wearing an eye patch, she would have gladly done anything to be rid of it. But as Faegan gently
put it back into its place and her vision was no longer occluded, she found wearing the simple
black piece of felt and accompanying string to be strangely reassuring. Steeling her resolve, she
looked Faegan squarely in the face. What was done was done. It was time for her to start giving
orders rather than taking them.
“Help me out of this bed,” she demanded.
Faegan shook his head. “No,” he protested. “You need to rest.”
Summoning what strength she had, Shailiha reached out to take hold of Faegan’s worn black
robe and pull him nearer. The wizard curiously raised one eyebrow, reminding her of Wigg. He
could easily have used the craft to stop her but he didn’t.
“I’m quite serious,” she said. “Get me on my feet. If I am to rule Eutracia in Tristan’s absence, I
refuse to do so from my bed!”
After pondering her order for a moment, Faegan decided to obey. Perhaps taking charge of the
future is the best medicine for her, he thought, rather than lying there and wondering what it might
do to her. He smiled and gave her a nod.
“As you wish, Princess,” he said.
Faegan raised one arm and summoned the craft. At once the bedsheets and comforter lifted
away to drift to the floor. Then the craft levitated the princess into the air and onto her feet. As the
spell dissipated, she gradually found her footing.
“Can you walk without help?” Faegan asked.
“I think so,” she answered. Then her expression softened. “I’m sorry if I was harsh with you, but I
must do this. Please leave me. I need to dress.”
“As you wish,” he said. “Do you have any other orders?”
Shailiha nodded. “I’m starving,” she said. “I know that it’s late, but I want Shawna to prepare a full
breakfast for me, including lots of hot, extra-strong tea. I want Traax to personally deliver his battle
report to me as soon as he awakens. And return my medallion to me. I can guess why you took it,
but I’ll have it back. When the Inkai contact me I will inform you at once.”
Nodding, Faegan removed the enchanted medallion from his person and handed it to her. As she
placed its chain around her neck, her expression fell. She gave the wizard a worried look.
“There’s one more thing,” she added quietly. “I realize that Morganna will be fast asleep, but have
her brought to me. There is something that I must know.”
Faegan understood, and his heart went out to her. “Of course,” he replied.
Knowing that there was little more to be said, he swiveled his chair around and wheeled it across
the princess’s quarters. Calling the craft to open the door, he steered his chair into the hallway
and the door closed quietly behind him.
Shailiha shuffled painfully across the room toward her wardrobe, gingerly trying to become
accustomed to her aching body and impaired vision. She hurt everywhere, but she also supposed
that the more she pushed herself, the quicker she would recover. After lighting more candles, she
changed from her gown into a pair of close-fitting black breeches, a white silk blouse, and a
sleeveless brown leather doublet. Putting on her knee boots was an immense challenge, but she
finally managed.
After running her fingers through her long blond hair, she was breathing heavily and sweating
lightly. She slowly crossed the floor to sit gratefully in one of the comfortable balcony chairs
overlooking the palace grounds. The night air was sweet and cooling. After taking a few deep
breaths she regained a modicum of composure.
And so I am partly blind, she thought. But my body and mind remain intact, so therefore I can still
rule. And rule I shall.
As the night creatures sang and the stars twinkled in the sky, Shailiha explored her feelings. Her
personal circumstances had changed, perhaps forever. This pain was new, but older, even
deeper wounds that had come long before these new ones still scarred her heart. Since the death
of her husband, Frederick, she had felt desperately alone, despite all the people and Minions who
shared this great palace.
Morganna had helped to fill the void left by Frederick’s passing, but since then there had been no
love like that which Frederick had given her. For a time after his death she believed that her love
for her child and the love that Morganna gave her in return would be enough to fulfill her. But she
later realized that this vacuum would be unique and long lasting, regardless of how much she and
her growing child loved one another. She needed a man’s arms around her. She wanted a man’s
strong but careful touch, his scent, his passion. She wanted to be swept away—even if only for
one night—so that she might fully experience womanhood once more. But there had been no
such passion in her life for more than three years, and she deeply mourned its loss.
Because of the new injuries to her face and eye, added concerns unfolded in her
heart—concerns about which she was at once sure and unsure. If her injuries did not heal, the
likelihood of finding romantic love would be dampened still further. As much as that thought
plagued her, another plagued her more. Morganna’s presence had partly filled the hole in
Shailiha’s heart, but without her daughter’s love and trust, that hole would only widen again,
perhaps irrevocably. And so she had demanded to see her daughter straightaway. She had to
know, before trying to carry on and rule the land that she and her brother so loved.
As she sat there with her thoughts, a soft knocking could be heard against her doors.
“Enter,” Shailiha called out hoarsely.
The doors parted to reveal Shawna and Morganna standing there. Shawna was dressed in her
usual work clothes, and the precocious three-year-old obediently held the gnome’s calloused
hand. Morganna was clothed in a simple red and white checked dress, white leggings, and shiny
black shoes. Her long blond hair lay behind her neck, collected by a jeweled pin. As Morganna
looked toward the balcony to find her mother, her face suddenly changed from delight to fear.
Cringing slightly, she lifted Shawna’s apron before her face, trying to find safety there.
Shailiha felt her heart break, but she continued to smile for Morganna’s sake. Shawna gave
Shailiha a concerned but knowing look, telling the princess that she had been fully informed of her
situation. Then the gnome pursed her lips and nodded, tacitly signaling her deep sympathy.
Shailiha stretched out her arms. “It’s all right, Morganna,” she said. “Please come to me. I’ve
missed you.”
Morganna moved slightly away from the protection of Shawna’s apron, but she refused to venture
farther. The look on her face now spoke of both fear and confusion.
“Mamma…?” she asked softly.
“Yes, it’s me,” Shailiha answered. “I’m a little bit sick, but I’ll be better soon.”
Morganna looked up at Shawna as if silently asking what she should do. After giving the princess
a wink, Shawna scowled at Morganna and put her hands akimbo.
“Don’t just stand here, child,” she said. “Go to your mother. I must get back to the palace kitchens
and cook up a great breakfast for you two. Now scat!”
Morganna swallowed hard, then started taking small, unsure steps toward the balcony. As she
neared, she realized that the person in the chair really was her mother, and her expression
changed from fear to concern. But as she reached Shailiha’s chair, the princess was overjoyed to
see her daughter suddenly reach up to be taken into her arms.
No amount of pain could stop Shailiha now. She scooped her daughter up and sat her in her lap.
As Morganna’s young eyes explored her mother’s wounds and the mysterious new eye patch, at
first she seemed frightened again. Then, to Shailiha’s delight, she smiled.
“It’s a game isn’t it, Mamma?” she asked. “You’ve made a game just for the two of us.”
Unsure of how to respond, the princess decided to agree. Holding her daughter closer, she said,
“Yes, Morganna, it’s a game. And when it’s over I will look the way I did before.” Holding Morganna
closer yet, she rocked her in her arms. Then she looked across the room to see Shawna brush
away a nagging tear.
“I’ll take my leave now, Your Grace,” she said. “The breakfast and all…”
As Shailiha pressed her lips against her daughter’s forehead she gave Shawna a little nod. The
gnome let herself out and the doors closed again.
Morganna pulled away a bit to again look into her mother’s face. This time the child’s fear was
gone, and Shailiha finally felt her heart calm. The worst has passed, she realized. Morganna again
reached up to touch her mother’s ravaged cheek.
“I love you, Mamma,” came the soft, longed-for words.
“I love you too,” Shailiha whispered back.
For the first time since she was injured, the Jin’Saiou’s tears flowed freely, and this time she did
nothing to hold them back.

CHAPTER XXXIX
MASHIRO’S WORDS STRUCK TRISTAN NEARLY SPEECHLESS. He quickly looked at Tyranny
and Wigg and saw that they were as amazed as he.
Surely Mashiro can’t mean what he just said! Tristan thought. The Tome and the two Scrolls of the
Ancients are priceless artifacts of the craft! How could he possibly suggest that they be
destroyed? And what could Mashiro mean by “dismantling the craft”?
Still unable to believe, Tristan stared incredulously at each Inkai member. The resolute
expressions on their faces said that they were firmly committed to Mashiro’s bizarre
announcement.
Tristan glared at Mashiro. “Are you mad?” he breathed. “The Tome and the Scrolls are paramount
in their importance! Hundreds of thousands of lives on both sides of the craft have been sacrificed
to possess them! How could you even suggest that they be destroyed? And what did you mean
about dismantling the craft when you have spent aeons trying to save it?”
“There is much for you and your friends to learn, Jin’Sai,” Mashiro answered calmly. “This
decision was not reached lightly, I assure you. But to save the craft we must first eliminate some
of its more advanced disciplines. Even then, we can do so only after Rustannica has been
defeated and the world reunited under your rule. For the moment, let us not discuss our
far-ranging plans for the craft. Instead, allow us to tell you about Rustannica, Shashida, and how
we came to become embroiled in this terrible struggle. I will start by explaining the Rustannican
government and culture.”
For the next hour Mashiro described the dangerous nation lying to the north. He explained the
Rustannican government workings in detail, including the roles of the Pon Q’tar, the emperor and
empress, the Priory of Virtue and the Femiculi, and the many tribunes who together constituted
the voting body called the Suffragat. He then went on to describe the workings of the horrific
Rustannican war machine with its legions, armada, and Blood Stalkers. Giving a detailed
description of the Rustannican social order, he explained the differences among the krithians,
hematites, phrygians, and skeens. The grotesque role of Rustannica’s many coliseums was then
outlined, as was her dwindling gold supply and resulting economic emergency. Finally he told
them of Vespasian’s new campaign to take the Shashidan gold mines.
When Mashiro finished, Wigg, Tristan, and Tyranny sat for a time in silent astonishment. After
casting an incredulous look at his fellow Conclave members, Tristan looked back at Mashiro.
“I beg the Afterlife,” he breathed. “It sounds monstrous. Are the Rustannicans truly that barbaric?”
Mashiro nodded. “Interestingly, they call us the barbarians,” he replied. “Rustannica is a victim of
her own excesses. Although many laws exist, morality does not figure prominently in their writing
or enforcement. Instead, all the laws are skewed in favor of those possessing endowed,
left-leaning blood. Unless one is a member of the krithian class or of the Suffragat, his or her life
belongs to the state. But to fully understand Rustannica there is much more that you need to
learn.”
After taking another sip of umake, Mashiro placed his hands flat on the table. “Things in
Rustannica are far from what they seem,” he said. “Only the Pon Q’tar and one other member of
the Rustannican government know the whole truth. Everyone else—including Vespasian and
Persephone—wrongly believes that the Vagaries are empowered by an eternal flame. This
imaginative lie serves the Pon Q’tar’s needs well. Ever since the Pon Q’tar clerics banded
together and convinced other mystics of left-leaning blood to follow them and break away from
Shashida to form their own nation, they have told the Rustannican people that the Vagaries and
Vigors are empowered by two opposing, magical azure flames. To add credibility to their lie, the
Pon Q’tar clerics spun another falsehood, claiming that in a courageous act of heroism they stole
the Vagaries flame from us barbaric Vigors worshippers. It was then supposedly brought to
Rustannica, where it could be forever nurtured and protected from Shashidan tampering in our
never-ending quest to destroy the Vagaries.”
Pausing for a moment, Mashiro took another sip of the heady umake. “To add weight to their lie,
they gave the flame a physical presence, then built a magnificent Rotunda in which to house it
and to provide living quarters for the Priory Sisters,” he added. “It is the Sisters’ task to ‘watch
over the flame and ensure its life so that the Vagaries shall never perish.’ As you can imagine, the
populace sees the Priory Sisters as immensely important to protecting the craft and their
continued way of life. In truth, the flame that the sisters protect is a sham that even they believe. It
is the role of the reigning Femiculi to reenergize the flame on each coming of the new moon. But
the enchantment taught to her by the Pon Q’tar to perform this ‘miracle of the craft’ does nothing
but ensure that the useless flame burns for another month. Except for helping to convince the
populace of the Pon Q’tar’s great hoax, the flame serves no purpose whatsoever.”
“Why did the Pon Q’tar weave such an elaborate lie?” Wigg asked. “Why not simply tell their
citizens the truth?”
“Rustannica is rife with secrets and lies,” Hoshi answered. “As you already know, we believe that
one side of the craft cannot exist without the other. The Pon Q’tar created the myth of the flame to
disguise various truths about the craft, such as the Orbs of the Vigors and Vagaries. Because the
two orbs remain trapped on the world’s other side, their existences can be easily refuted. Like the
Sorceresses of the Coven, the Pon Q’tar’s use of the Vagaries has blinded them to the truth. They
are aware of the theory that each side of the craft needs the other, but like Failee and her
followers, they refuse to believe it. They hope that with Vespasian’s coming they can use his
immensely powerful blood to finally smash Shashida and destroy all the Vigors practitioners west
of the Tolenkas. Because the Orb of the Vigors is safe from their reach, the Vigors would continue
to exist—at least in theory. But with no one of right-leaning blood left on our side of the world to
employ the Vigors, here that side of the craft would be as good as extinct. That’s another reason
why the Pon Q’tar and the Heretics have done all they could to help destroy Vigors practitioners
and the Vigors Orb on your side of the world. With those deeds done, much of their mission
would be finished. But what they refuse to believe is that should their ultimate goals be achieved,
all magic would cease to exist and the entire world would be plunged into a unique form of
mayhem and darkness from which it would never emerge.”
“There is another reason why the Pon Q’tar perpetuates the hoax of the eternal flame,” Midori
spoke up. “Because of Rustannica’s monetary woes, an internal revolt is brewing. If the
Rustannican citizens knew the whole truth about the craft and what would truly happen to the
world if the Vigors were destroyed, they might rise up and demand not only a halt to the war, but
that all magic practitioners again try to live in peace. Because of the great manpower needed to
prosecute Vespasian’s new campaign, there are likely not enough legions left at home to quell a
powerful civil uprising. Aside from a Jin’Sai or Jin’Saiou finally reaching Shashida, that is the Pon
Q’tar’s greatest fear—especially now that their economy is on the verge of collapse and the
government has launched an all-out war to seize our gold. If our mines are taken, the
Rustannican war machine can continue to wreak havoc against us for aeons to come.”
Tristan sat back in his chair. He grasped everything he had just heard, but hosts of questions
remained. He turned to look at Mashiro.
“If Vespasian’s advance is stopped and Rustannica can one day be brought to her knees, why
would you then wish to destroy the Tome and the Scrolls of the Ancients?” Tristan asked. “And
why would you ‘dismantle’ the craft? If the Vagaries disciples can be neutralized without
destroying the orb that empowers their side of the craft, why would you contemplate such a
thing?”
“Indeed,” Wigg added. “We mean no disrespect, but what you’re proposing suggests destroying
everything we have spent our lives trying to protect.”
Renjiro folded his arms across his chest and gave Wigg and Tristan a compassionate look. “We
understand your concern,” he said. “Your limited successes in better understanding and using the
craft have been admirable. And from your less educated viewpoints, our suggestions must surely
seem antithetical. But you must hear us out. Over the aeons, even our use of the Vigors has
become a source of great concern, to say nothing of the death and destruction the Vagaries
practitioners have caused. If we are to succeed in saving the craft, we must first eliminate some
of its higher applications and destroy forever the tools that have allowed those applications to
flourish. The craft is in desperate need of salvation, for its evolution during the last few thousand
years has denigrated Vigors and Vagaries practitioners alike. Although this downward slide was
started by the Pon Q’tar as a way to destroy us, we were forced to adopt some of the same
techniques in order to fight off their constant onslaughts. If both sides of magic and their
practitioners are to eventually live in peace, the craft must become much more the way it once
was.”
“Are you referring to the plan that was outlined to me by the Envoys of Crysenium?” Tristan
asked. “It was their wish that I return to Crysenium and my blood signature be altered to the
vertical so that it shows no bias. Then I was to try to find a rebel organization called the League of
Whispers and eventually convince the Rustannicans that a peaceful solution could be found. The
Envoys hoped that such a display of trust would carry much weight and perhaps lead us onto the
road toward peace.”
“As did the rest of us,” Mashiro answered. “Some of those same Envoys once sat at this table,
and it was in this room that their plan was approved. But the situation has changed markedly in
the short time between then and now. Because of Rustannica’s rapidly spiraling financial troubles
and the advent of Vespasian’s new campaign, the Suffragat members would never entertain a
peace proposal now, because this campaign has simply cost them too much of their already
dwindling treasury funds. The die has been cast, and for Vespasian and the Pon Q’tar this is a
campaign of last resort. They simply don’t have the funds to sustain their country while spending
decades conducting peace negotiations. They know that we could simply wait them out as they
grow progressively poorer and further unable to control their restless populace. Vespasian and
the Pon Q’tar would never stand for that. We believe that the only way to stop them now is by
vanquishing them in the field. In fact, we have no other choice, because if they take and hold our
gold supplies we will soon find our economic situations reversed. But that is not to say that every
facet of the Envoys’ peace plan was without merit.”
“I still don’t understand,” Tyranny said. “If you can vanquish the Rustannicans, what need would
there be to ‘dismantle’ the craft?”
“Despite the craft’s mazelike complexities, your question is perhaps best answered with two
simple words,” Mashiro said.
Wigg raised an eyebrow. “And what might they be?” he asked.
Mashiro looked deeply into Wigg’s eyes. “Free will,” he said softly.
Tristan glanced at Wigg to find a look of complete surprise. Then the First Wizard’s expression
morphed into one of deep thought.
“Are you all right?” Tristan asked.
His thoughts racing, Wigg stared at Tristan with unseeing eyes, then blankly looked back at
Mashiro.
“I beg the Afterlife,” he breathed. “The Paragon, the forestallments, the Tome, and the Scrolls of
the Ancients—they were all crutches! Everything is gradually spiraling out of control and taking
craft practitioners from both sides into the abyss with it! The more advanced our craft use
becomes, the more we hurt ourselves!”
Pausing for a moment, Wigg simply stared into space. “I’m right, am I not?” he breathed. “I beg
the Afterlife—how could we have been so blind? We worked so hard…we always believed that
what we were doing was so right…”
Tristan gave Wigg a concerned look. “What do you mean?” he asked.
“As I said, we’re talking about free will,” Mashiro answered in the wizard’s stead. “The true
purpose of uniting Shashida and Rustannica goes far deeper than just ending the War of Attrition.
The unification’s greater goal will be not only to return all blood signature leans to the vertical, but
also to forever rid the world of forestallments. This will allow a return to free will, which, because
of blood signature lean, neither side truly possesses. Despite what you might have been led to
believe, blood signatures did not always show a perceptible lean one way or the other. As
endowed human beings evolved, so did this trait that so strongly influences them to pursue one
side of the craft or the other. The stronger the blood quality, the stronger the compulsion. If all
blood signatures can be aligned to the vertical without exception, perhaps blood signature lean
can be wiped out for good. And without forestallments, people will again spend lifetimes learning
to use magic rather than simply having its many gifts so easily imbued into their blood, thereby
ending the overuse of the craft. Because the craft’s many gifts can be so readily imbued into
endowed blood by forestallment, even here in Shashida many of our endowed persons have
dedicated themselves to little more than lives of outright leisure. We have not yet succumbed to
the depravity of the Rustannicans, but that is not to say it couldn’t happen. Hard work and the
satisfaction of the struggle needed to learn the craft the traditional way—and with it a better
appreciation of its many gifts—are becoming a thing of the past. Something earned by sweat and
toil is far more treasured than that which has been effortlessly given. A new, unified culture will be
forced to begin again, and to live in peace for the good of the craft and all mankind despite our
differences. Forestallments were first conceived by the Pon Q’tar to quickly empower their
mystics with powerful, destructive gifts. They believed—and rightly so—that if they could do this
fast enough, their mystics and soldiers could easily crush us. They nearly succeeded.”
Amazed by what he had just heard, Tristan looked over at Renjiro. “This is what you meant
earlier, isn’t it,” he asked, “when you said that if we are to succeed in saving the craft and
ourselves, we must first banish some of its applications and forever destroy the tools that have
allowed those applications to flourish? That also means destroying the Tome and the two
Scrolls.”
“Yes,” Renjiro answered. “And all such documents and research on this side of the world as well.
Here in Shashida, the Tome and two Scrolls do not carry the great importance that you place on
them. To us, they are little more than children’s craft primers, and they are not needed. The
Vagaries Scroll was created by the Pon Q’tar and left behind on the world’s eastern side so that
future generations of Vagaries practitioners might find it and put its forestallment calculations to
the same use as here. Failee found the Scroll, but it came into her grasp too late to help her win
the Sorceresses’ War. The next time the Scroll surfaced it was in Nicholas’ hands. Then it came
to be owned by Krassus, Wulfgar, Serena, and finally you and your Conclave. Although doing so
went against our better judgment, we were forced to create a Vigors Scroll and leave it behind so
that it might counterbalance the Vagaries Scroll. It also came into Nicholas’ grasp but was stolen
by the orphans called Marcus and Rebecca and was later given to you. The Tome and the
Paragon were also created by us and left behind for the same reasons. Because we feared that
the Tome might fall into the hands of Vagaries practitioners, we were forced to make its
revelations purposely obscure.”
Tristan looked over at Wigg and Tyranny. Tyranny still seemed stunned, but Wigg’s expression
had become resigned, accepting.
“You agree with this plan, don’t you,” Tristan said.
Wigg nodded soberly. “Now that I understand it, I do indeed,” he answered. Lacing his long fingers
together and placing his hands atop the table, Wigg looked at Mashiro.
“But I suspect that there is something more to your hopes and dreams than what you have told
us,” he said. “And as you told Tyranny, it might be best summed up in two words.”
Mashiro smiled. The wizard has grasped it, he thought. “And what might they be?” he asked.
“Respectful tolerance,” Wigg answered. “The concept that all Vigors and the Vagaries
practitioners have done the things they did because they were compelled to do so by the nature of
their blood. And that if this concept can be universally accepted and all blood signatures made the
same, each side can forgive the other. Then the healing can truly begin.”
“Well said,” Kaemon spoke up from the other side of the table. “Now you understand that your
many struggles east of the Tolenkas were only the beginning. The real war is here, and you have
become a part of it.”
Tristan suddenly felt a distant memory tug at his mind. It was a puzzling recollection whose
meaning had long eluded him. At long last he had his answer.
“Krassus…,” he said softly.
“What of Krassus?” Wigg asked.
“It happened the day I awakened to find myself a slave on one of his demonslaver ships,” Tristan
answered. “Before condemning me to the galleys, Krassus ordered me tied to a chair and he beat
me. I defied him, and I told him that like Nicholas, he represented nothing but evil. Until this
moment, his answer mystified me.”
“What did he tell you?” Wigg asked.
Tristan thought for a moment, trying to remember the Vagaries wizard’s words.
“Evil?” Tristan quoted. “He who has yet to be trained calls me evil? Don’t you know that there are
no such things as good or evil, Chosen One? There are only the Vigors and the Vagaries. Tell
me, dear prince, do you really believe that Failee was ‘evil’? Or was she simply doing what she
was compelled to do? Given the undeniable call of her left-leaning signature, did she truly have a
choice? Don’t you see, you fool? It is the same with me. I’m not ‘evil.’ I don’t even know the
meaning of the word.”
Tristan looked at Mashiro. “You speak of tolerance,” he said. “Do you mean to say that all the
Vagaries practitioners—no matter how vile—should be forgiven their terrible deeds because their
blood compelled them to perform them?”
Mashiro sighed. “That is a question that has plagued us ever since the discovery of blood
signature lean and the terrible realization that it easily induces us into vastly opposing actions and
beliefs,” he answered. “Shashidan philosophers have spent aeons trying to learn the answer to
that question but to no avail. I cannot say whether the Vagaries practitioners should be forgiven
any more than we should be, for what they believe are the many transgressions that we
perpetrated on them. But what I do know is that it calls into question the conflicting natures of
‘good’ and ‘evil.’ Perhaps this is what Krassus was trying to tell you. Can one exist without the
other? I don’t know. But like the two sides of the craft, it seems that they at least need one
another, if for no other reason than to justify their existence. Perhaps the true answer will only be
found if everyone’s blood signatures are altered to the vertical. With the full and lasting return of
free will, if people freely choose to practice the Vagaries and to hurt and enslave others, perhaps
only then might they legitimately be pronounced ‘evil,’ and rightly punished for their deeds. But until
that day, all this is simply a matter of semantics. Before our dreams can come true, Vespasian
must be stopped. If not, we and the Vigors that we so cherish might well perish from the earth.
Should we fail, at the least Rustannica’s ability to continue this monstrous war will be prolonged,
perhaps interminably so. And because we believe that if one side of the craft perishes, then so too
will the other, we fight from a unique perspective and for a far different goal than do the
Rustannicans. Unlike them, we do not fight to destroy the opposite side of the craft, but to save
both sides.”
“How do you plan to stop Vespasian’s advance?” Tyranny asked.
“Our forces are gathering to meet them as we speak,” another female Inkai answered. “The only
reason that we haven’t engaged them yet is because we learned that a reigning Jin’Sai was finally
crossing the Azure Sea. With you in our midst the entire nature of the battle plan must be
changed. Now that you are here, our new plan can begin in earnest—provided, of course that you
agree to help us defeat Vespasian. Contrary to what you might have guessed, so far we have
purposely not provided his forces with much resistance.”
“Why not?” Tristan asked.
“Because the place from which he must take our gold is unique and also the best place in which
to trap his forces,” she answered. “Vespasian surely knows this, but because he needs the gold,
he has no choice.”
Tristan looked across the table at the Inkai whom Mashiro had introduced as Haru of the House of
Eagles. She seemed younger than the other elders, with dark hair that was streaked with gray.
Her sky-blue robe bore white embroidered eagles. She was an attractive woman with piercing
blue eyes.
Tristan gave Haru a curious look. “Why would your choice of a battle plan depend on my
participation?” he asked. “I remain untrained in the ways of the craft. The powers of my Conclave
mystics do not begin to rival yours, and my Minions are but a paltry few when compared with your
reputedly immense forces. We will of course do all that we can to help. But how can such less
powerful souls as we possibly make any difference in this struggle?”
Renjiro leaned forward and looked directly at Tristan. “You and Vespasian possess the highest
quality endowed blood in the world,” he answered. “His blood is the full equal of yours. Your
crossing paths this way is earth-shattering in its importance to the craft and the world that it
governs. Had you not been born when you were, Vespasian and his forces would surely defeat
us. It is highly unlikely that a confluence of such amazingly powerful opposing bloodlines will ever
occur again. You two have the potential to become the world’s greatest leaders and
warriors—you of the Vigors and he of the Vagaries. Thanks to Gracchus’ teachings, Vespasian
will soon reach his full potential. But you have not had such training, and it will be our task to ready
you at last. What follows will surely be the final battle for dominance. Either we will win and both
sides of the craft will flourish for the good of all mankind, or Vespasian and his forces will defeat
us and the craft will cease to exist, plunging the world into never-ending darkness and chaos.”
His gaze growing sterner, Renjiro locked his dark eyes onto Tristan’s. “For you see, Jin’Sai,” he
said, “Vespasian has been carefully groomed and trained all his life by the Pon Q’tar to serve only
one purpose—to lead them to final victory over Shashida. We suspect that his blood holds gifts of
which even he is not aware—gifts that his Pon Q’tar masters will unleash at the right moment.
Vespasian believes that he is their ruler, and in some ways that is true. But he is also their puppet
and their ultimate tool of war. If you agree, we will train you in the same fashion, for only you can
lead us to victory against the human abomination that the Pon Q’tar has produced. The result will
be a battle between titans such as the world has never seen. In this way your fabled destiny will
finally come to fruition.”
Shocked yet again by Renjiro’s words, for several moments Tristan sat in silence. Finally he
found his voice.
“But Vespasian has had a lifetime to prepare for this struggle!” Tristan protested. “What you
suggest seems impossible. How can you train me so fast?”
“By making you Vespasian’s equal,” Renjiro answered sternly.
“But how…?” Tristan asked.
“We must to do the very things that we have so come to dread,” Renjiro answered quietly.
“Because of their supreme quality, only your blood and his are strong enough to survive what
must be done to them to achieve ultimate power in the craft. Some among us consider our plan to
be the ultimate abuse of the craft, but we have little choice if we are to survive.” Pausing for a
moment, Renjiro gazed again into Tristan’s eyes.
“Just as the Pon Q’tar did with Vespasian, we intend to imbue your blood signature with
forestallments that have long been banned because they might literally mean the end of the
world.”

CHAPTER XL
RISING FROM HER SEAT AT THE WAR TABLE, PERSEPHONE walked to the command tent
flap and gazed outside. The day had grown late, but aside from the lengthening shadows, the
view had changed little since Vespasian and Lucius had departed to inspect the battle zone.
Gracchus had grown weary of waiting for Vespasian’s return and went to attend to other matters.
Saying that she was tired, Julia Idaeus had gone off to rest in her private tent chamber.
Persephone was glad to have some quiet time alone.
As she looked down the long slope, she saw that it was still blanketed with row after row of
legionnaires marching to the front. This was the empress’s first foray into war, and although she
took no part in the fighting, she believed herself to be an important part of this campaign.
Vespasian wisely relied on the advice of all his counselors before making important decisions. But
Persephone had always been his greatest confidante and most trusted friend, and in many ways
he valued her opinion above all others. Although her experience afield was limited, her schooling
in military tactics and the history of war was every bit as comprehensive as her husband’s. One
look at a war map was all she needed to sum up a situation and give Vespasian a valid and
well-conceived opinion.
But Vespasian valued Persephone’s advice for more than just her schooling, her intelligence, or
her powerful command of the craft. Unlike Vespasian’s other advisors, she had no need to curry
favor by agreeing with him when she might otherwise not, or by fawning loyalty so as to win a
higher position in the government pecking order. Be her always frank advice welcome or
unwelcome, Vespasian could rest assured that it came from her heart rather than from some
ulterior personal need.
Walking back to the table, Persephone poured another cup of wine, then sat down and again
consulted the many war maps lying there. So far the campaign was succeeding brilliantly. But like
Vespasian and Lucius, she was concerned by their string of easy successes, and couldn’t
entirely dismiss the feeling that their legions were marching into a Shashidan trap. But also like
her husband and their trusted First Tribune, she believed that it was too early in the campaign for
the Shashidans to suspect their ultimate goal.
There were valid reasons for optimism. The Rustannican forces were still too far away for the
Inkai to be sure of their enemy’s ultimate objective, and Vespasian’s invasion route into Shashida
had been used several times before by other emperors whose purposes had been vastly
different. From their current position, the Rustannican legions could turn in various directions,
each one heading toward a worthwhile objective. It was hoped that only when the legions came
far closer to the gold mines would the Inkai realize the daring nature of the Rustannicans’ plan.
Moreover, taking the Shashidan mines had never been tried. Conquering Shashida’s gold supplies
had long been considered by both sides to be reckless to the point of military insanity. The
Shashidans knew that their mines were nearly unassailable and that any attempt by the enemy to
take them would result in huge, perhaps devastating Rustannican losses, even if the mines were
taken. Vespasian’s intelligence reports claimed that because of these beliefs, the Shashidans had
grown complacent about protecting the mines and sometimes reduced the number of troops
there to employ them elsewhere in the war.
Persephone was no fool, and she knew that Vespasian’s ability to convince the Suffragat was due
to more than his well-known powers of persuasion. Much of the Suffragat’s agreement was
because Rustannica’s economic woes had dramatically worsened and this attack or something
much like it simply had to occur. The Suffragat could only hope that like the Rustannican general
populace, the Shashidan Inkai were ignorant of the desperate state of the Rustannican treasury.
For if they knew the truth, the true motive behind this invasion would come to light too soon and
perhaps spell an early defeat.
Because of the vast Borderlands separating the two nations, the Suffragat had long believed that
the likelihood of Shashidan agents spying in Rustannica was small, lending strength to the hope
that taking the mines was still a military secret. But even the Suffragat could not know for sure.
Random blood signature examinations meant to ferret out Shashidan spies were regularly carried
out by roving bands of centurions, but few such agents were ever found. And given the millions of
people living in Rustannica, trying to randomly unmask enemy spies this way was haphazard at
best. Even so, rumors of a Shashidan spy network called the League of Whispers persisted.
After putting down her wine cup, Persephone looked around the command tent. Although she was
a lady through and through, she was no shrinking violet. She enjoyed the campaign’s noise,
activity, and sense of urgency. In a way she even enjoyed the simpler but still comfortable
surroundings in which she now lived.
This war tent and those adjoining it were large and ornately decorated. Many more colorful tents
like it stood nearby, each one topped with red banner bearing the imperial eagle embroidered in
gold. One dozen of these tents housed the Pon Q’tar, another served as Lucius’ personal
quarters, yet another as Julia Idaeus’ living area, and the fourth and largest held Vespasian and
Persephone’s private rooms. The area in which the empress sat was the communal command
tent, its spacious focal point connected by canvas corridors to the other tents. In this way the
Femiculi, the emperor and empress, the First Tribune, and the Pon Q’tar could reach the
command tent without having to trespass through each other’s private quarters. This series of
interconnected tents was an ingenious arrangement that the Rustannican war machine had used
in the field for centuries.
Like her and Vespasian’s private areas, the central command tent was sumptuous and
comfortable. Patterned rugs lay on the grass and tapestries hung on the tent walls. Supported by
golden poles, the eight-part canvas ceiling rose to a high point in the center of the room.
Upholstered chairs, sofas, and benches were placed about, and oil lamps hung at regular
intervals from the golden roof beams. A long sideboard offered up food, wine, and other
delicacies. Before a tray or pitcher could become empty or its contents stale, camp skeens
immediately refreshed them. Watchful centurions always stood guard outside the command tent
and the connecting tents.
Tired of studying the war maps, Persephone rose from her chair and walked across the room to
gaze into a full-length mirror. Although the dress she wore was simpler than something she might
have chosen at the imperial palace, she looked lovely. The light blue silk highlighted her eyes, and
her gold jewelry sparkled in the soft, warm light cast by the many oil lamps. As a matter of
practicality while afield, she had collected her long blond hair behind her neck with a sapphire
clasp, allowing it to fall along the graceful arch of her back. She was a beautiful woman, and
despite her lofty position she carried herself without pretension or arrogance.
Persephone was everything Vespasian could have asked for in a mate—save for the one flaw that
had produced a crack in her heart and stubbornly refused to heal. She had gladly given him
everything she had, everything she was, and everything she would ever be. In return he loved her
with an ardor and fidelity unheard of during the reigns of past emperors, who brazenly took lovers
despite their empresses.
Yet there was one last gift that she had yet to bestow, and she deeply mourned her failure to do
so. Worse, it was the one thing that she wanted to give him most of all, and what she knew that
he hungered most to receive. She had yet to give him an heir.
Persephone knew that she was a strong woman and a Vagaries sorceress without equal. Should
Vespasian die, she believed that she could effectively rule in his stead. Even so, she felt
unfulfilled. Despite her immense command of the craft and the fact that she was one of the most
powerful people in Rustannica, her inability to do what most women took for granted often made
her feel inferior and alone. Vespasian always comforted her during these times of self-doubt,
telling her that it didn’t matter and that there was still much time left in which to try. But when he
said such things she could sense the pain lying behind his words. The Pon Q’tar had chosen her
to be his bride, and neither of them had been given any choice in the matter. Because of that she
often wondered whether Vespasian harbored any resentment about not being able to live his life
as he chose or with whom he chose. Another woman would have probably given him a child, she
knew.
But Persephone also knew that right now it didn’t matter—nothing did, save for their loving each
other and overseeing the final death blow to the Vigors. And so she would do her best to put her
personal inadequacies aside until the campaign was through. If they were victorious, she and
Vespasian could keep trying to have a child. And if not it wouldn’t matter, for they would probably
be dead.
Just then she saw Lucius stride into the command tent. She was surprised not to see Vespasian
by his side. After looking around, the First Tribune hurried toward her and took her hands into his.
His face bore a worried expression.
“Are you alone?” he whispered.
Persephone nodded. “Where is Vespasian?” she asked.
“I’m glad you’re here, Empress,” he said loudly, as if trying to make sure that he was heard
outside the tent. Then his conspiratorial look returned.
“There is something I must show you!” he whispered. “Stay here, and no matter what happens,
let me give the orders!”
As Persephone watched him hurry from the tent, she noticed that the two centurion guards were
gone. Then Lucius’ booming voice called out again.
“Bring it into the tent!” she heard him order. “The empress is waiting!”
To her surprise, three legionnaires carried a great rug into the tent. The rug was rolled up and lay
across their strong shoulders. On Lucius’ order they placed it on the ground.
“Shall we unroll your prize?” one of them asked the Tribune.
“No,” Lucius answered. “I will do so myself. I had to kill three Shashidans to get it and it is to be a
personal gift for the empress. Now begone!”
After giving the First Tribune crisp salutes, the legionnaires left the tent to go about their other
duties.
Persephone scowled and placed her fists on her hips. “Why would you bring me a rug?” she
asked. “Where is Vespasian? And what has become of the two guards who were outside the
door?”
Before answering, Lucius pointed at the rolled-up tent flap. At once it came loose and fell
earthward to close out the world.
“I sent the guards away!” he whispered. “You will soon see why!”
Lucius pointed at the rug and it began to unroll across the ground. As it reached its full length,
Persephone was amazed to see Vespasian lying atop it. He was clearly in distress. His eyes
were closed, he was bathed in sweat, and his body shook uncontrollably.
Persephone immediately realized that Vespasian was in the grip of another day terror. Before
going to him, she grabbed Lucius by the shoulders. Calling on the craft, she augmented the
strength in her arms and swiveled him around to face her. The look on her face was desperate.
“Does the Pon Q’tar know about this?” she demanded.
“No!” Lucius whispered quickly. “But it is likely that some legionnaires on their way to the front
saw him like this, and we cannot assume that word of it won’t reach Gracchus! Just before losing
consciousness, Vespasian told me to hide him in the chariot and bring him straight to you. He
said that no one else was to know. I did as I was told.”
Lucius looked down at his friend of so many years. In all his life he had never seen Vespasian so
helpless. The sight of the most powerful mystic in the world humbled and struck down so quickly
by an unseen enemy had unnerved the stalwart tribune.
“What is wrong with him?” he asked Persephone. “He talked as though this has happened
before.”
“It has,” she answered. “And now that you have seen it, there can be no going back for you. I’m
sorry that you had to become involved in this, Lucius, but what’s done is done. This was never our
intent. I thank the Afterlife that you were there when it happened! You did well to bring him to me
unnoticed.”
Persephone sat down on the rug and took Vespasian into her arms. Lucius watched sadly as she
rocked her husband back and forth like the child she never had.
“Shall I call for a healer?” Lucius asked.
“No!” Persephone answered. “I know of nothing that can be done for him. He must return to us on
his own.” Suddenly the look on her face became commanding.
“And now you too know the secret,” she declared.
Looking down at her stricken husband, she wiped his brow and smoothed his damp blond curls.
Despite her legendary skills in the craft, she was helpless to save the person she most loved in
the world. That painful awareness caused her recent thoughts to resurface, and she realized that
this was yet another way in which she had failed him. I can’t cure him, but I can protect him, she
decided. She looked back up at Lucius.
“What I am about to tell you must remain a secret,” she said. “Only we three know about the
emperor’s affliction. If the Pon Q’tar or any other Suffragat members learn of it they might declare
him unfit to lead this badly needed campaign. In the end, that defeat would crush Vespasian as
surely as this affliction might. The Suffragat has the right to declare him unfit, but we must hide
his secret. If word of this gets out I shall know that it came from you and I will kill you myself, do
you understand?”
“Yes, Empress,” Lucius answered respectfully. “I love him too. But is there nothing that we can do
for him?”
“Pick him up,” she ordered. “We must take him to our private quarters before anyone else comes
in! Only there can I protect him and explain away his absence! Hurry now!”
Lucius bent down to take Vespasian into his arms. With the empress leading the way, the First
Tribune carried Vespasian down one of the many connecting canvas corridors and into the safety
of the emperor’s personal quarters.

SCARCELY ABLE TO BELIEVE WHAT SHE HAD JUST HEARD, Julia Idaeus stood stock-still,
praying that she hadn’t been noticed. She stood only two meters away, just out of view down the
long canvas corridor that connected her private quarters to the communal war tent. Finished with
her rest, she had decided to rejoin Persephone to see whether she could coax the empress into
telling her something that might be useful to the Inkai.
Never in her wildest dreams had she expected to hear such revelations as these. As she neared
the war tent and heard the urgent conversation taking place there, she had immediately halted,
then called a spell to cloak her endowed blood so that the empress and the First Tribune would
not sense her presence.
After Persephone and Lucius spirited Vespasian away, she stood in the canvas corridor, thinking.
They would likely not return for some time, she guessed.
Deciding to enter the war tent, with shaking hands she poured a cup of wine, then went to sit on
one of the finely upholstered benches. She could not know how long she might have the luxury of
being alone, and she would use every precious moment to think.
What she had just overheard was vastly important, and the Inkai must be informed at once. She
had found but one safe occasion to commune with them since that day in the Hall of Antiquity,
using that instance to supply them with vital details regarding Vespasian’s advance. To her
delight, she had been told that the Jin’Sai had finally reached Shashida.
But the news that she had just stumbled across might be even more valuable, she realized, and
the Inkai must be told straightaway. All she needed was another safe opportunity to do so, but
when and where?
Taking another sip of the excellent wine, she smiled to herself as she ended the spell cloaking her
blood.

CHAPTER XLI
RENJIRO’S WORDS HIT TRISTAN LIKE A THUNDERBOLT. “Just as the Pon Q’tar did with
Vespasian, we intend to imbue your blood signature with forestallments that have long been
banned because they might literally mean the end of the world….”
Renjiro’s mention of banned spells immediately reminded Tristan of his first visit to Crysenium
and what the envoy Miriam had told him about the early days of the War of Attrition. She too had
mentioned spells that had been banned from use by both sides of the conflict. As Tristan thought
about it further, the pieces of Renjiro’s mysterious announcement fell into place. The sudden
awareness was terrifying.
The Pon Q’tar was about to take the struggle to the highest level. The only thing holding them
back had been their need for an endowed person of supremely powerful blood whom the
Shashidans could not effectively counter. With the birth of Vespasian they finally had one. And
only Tristan’s blood was the supposed equal of the emperor’s.
Tristan looked into Renjiro’s eyes. “It’s true, then—I’m the only one who can stop this,” he said.
“The Pon Q’tar will try to take your gold because no matter what else happens, they still need the
gold to keep their nation from falling apart. But afterward they will try to accomplish far more. They
wish to destroy Shashida completely—to wipe its civilization from the face of the earth with one
stroke. Using the banned spells, they mean to do with this one campaign what they have failed to
achieve in aeons of relentless conventional war. You’re right, Renjiro. With Vespasian’s coming
they finally have the ultimate weapon with which to realize their dreams.”
A blank look on his face, Tristan sat back in his chair. “I beg the Afterlife,” he breathed. “Despite its
disastrous consequences, it’s an inspired plan.” Suddenly something else occurred to him and he
shot a quick glance at Mashiro.
“Does Vespasian fully understand his role in all this?” he asked.
Mashiro sadly shook his head. “We can’t be sure, but we have reason to doubt it,” he answered.
“Our best guess is that he still believes that the entire battle plan concerns only taking the mines.
If we’re right, the Pon Q’tar will tell him soon enough. We suspect that Vespasian’s blood already
possesses these awful gifts, but that he remains unaware of them.”
“Why would the Pon Q’tar not inform him?” Tristan asked.
“Excuse me,” Wigg interjected. “Would someone please explain what you’re talking about?”
A short smile crossed Tristan’s lips. “As you have been so fond of telling me over the years, you
already have the needed information,” he answered. “You simply don’t understand how it all falls
into place. I must say that it feels good to explain something to you for a change.”
Wigg pursed his lips. “Then I suggest that you enlighten this simple old wizard and your Conclave
privateer,” he said. Sitting back in his chair, he crossed his arms over his chest.
“It all goes back to something Miriam told me in Crysenium before she and the other Envoys were
killed,” Tristan answered. Before continuing he shot a questioning glance at Mashiro. “Am I right?”
he asked.
“I don’t know,” the Inkai elder answered. “After all, I wasn’t there. Any time I know you speak in
error I’ll humbly correct you, Jin’Sai.”
“Fair enough,” Tristan answered.
“And so?” Wigg eagerly pressed.
Tristan looked back at the First Wizard. He took a deep breath, as if even he couldn’t believe what
he was about to say.
“I told the Conclave the things Miriam said to me about the early days of the War of Attrition,”
Tristan said. “Surely you remember them.”
Wigg nodded. “Yes,” he answered. “But it seems that you have taken those revelations a step
further in meaning.”
Tristan thought for a moment as he tried to recall Miriam’s words.
“Aeons ago, everyone here lived in a fragile and tense coexistence,” he said. “Then the Vagaries
practitioners became fanatically devoted to the dark side of the craft. Eventually they split away
and started the civil war. What followed was a miscalculation beyond description.”
Wigg nodded. “Go on,” he said.
“During the war’s early years the Vagaries rebels used especially dark magic to influence the
forces of nature,” Tristan explained. “Spells were formulated that allowed them to employ natural
phenomena as weapons of war. The destruction was unprecedented, and millions died. To
survive, the Vigors practitioners had no choice but to do the same thing, even though it went
against their principles.” Suddenly realizing something else, Tristan again glanced over at
Mashiro.
“These environmental spells are much like the forestallments, aren’t they?” he asked. “They
represent a direction in which you would have preferred not to take the craft, but you had to follow
the Pon Q’tar’s lead to ensure the survival of the Vigors.”
Mashiro nodded. “Well done,” he said. “Please continue.”
“Before the war started, what we now call Eutracia and Parthalon were part of this world,” Tristan
added. “The Tolenkas didn’t exist, nor did the Sea of Whispers. The lands encompassing
Eutracia and Parthalon were one and the same. Once loosed, the dark environmental magic
produced devastating and unexpected side effects. The Tolenkas suddenly arose and the land
mass separated, creating the Sea of Whispers. Since then these environmental and seismic arts
have been abandoned by both sides because their far-reaching effects might kill their users as
easily as the enemy. But the formulas were held in reserve by each side, in case the other should
try such madness again.”
Tristan looked at Mashiro. “The Pon Q’tar plans to resurrect these ancient arts, don’t they?” he
asked. “The only reason why they abandoned them at all was because they knew that you could
retaliate in kind. But with Vespasian among them, they know that if they imbue these gifts into his
blood, Shashida will be defeated once and for all. Nothing could stand against the lethal
combination of his blood quality and those dark arts.”
“Well done,” Hoshi said. “But there remains much that you don’t know. Long ago, a treaty was
signed between Rustannica and Shashida that outlawed environmental spells by both sides. Until
now the Pon Q’tar has kept its word. Every Inkai you see here took part in the negotiations, and at
first we had hoped for an outright end to the war. We were rebuffed on that score, but the Pon
Q’tar did agree to ban the nature spells because they realized that more than anything else, those
particularly powerful craft devices could mean their defeat. Gracchus and I were the treaty’s chief
architects, and it was signed in the no-man’s land that is the Borderlands. Every Inkai and Pon
Q’tar member signed the document. Many of those people are still alive. The Borderlands Treaty
has survived the test of time, but we fear that the Pon Q’tar is about to violate it.”
“How long ago was the treaty signed?” Tyranny asked.
“One hundred and fifty-one centuries past,” Hoshi answered. “Each side agreed to never use this
terrible kind of magic again. But two unique occurrences have intersected in time to tempt the
Pon Q’tar into rethinking their position. One is the depletion of the Rustannican treasury, and the
other is the birth and coming to manhood of Vespasian Augustus I. Had either of these events
occurred separately, the Pon Q’tar mightn’t feel so emboldened yet also so deeply threatened at
the same time. If the banned spells are used by Vespasian, he will summon unheard-of power.
We have no wish to reply in kind, but if we are to survive, it seems we must fight back with a
weapon of equal ferocity. Our use of such spells was stopped, but our research into their
workings was not. Surely the Pon Q’tar has been doing similar, if not superior, study. In the entire
world only the Jin’Sai’s blood and Vespasian’s are strong enough to accept these advanced but
untried spells without dying. But the stakes might rise even higher than that. If Vespasian uses
these gifts improperly, it could mean more than the destruction of Shashida. It could cause the
vaporization of the entire planet.”
Tristan sat quietly for a moment. “And you wish me to become a weapon like Vespasian, an
ultimate destroyer of worlds,” he said. “I thought that my mission was to be one of peace.”
“That was our wish as well,” Mashiro said, “and so we agreed to the Envoys’ plan. But as we have
said, that prospect is dead. We asked for none of this, Jin’Sai. Now it seems that if we are to find
a lasting peace, there is but one way. As I said, while the Pon Q’tar fights to destroy the Vigors,
we fight to save both sides of the craft. Not to resist Vespasian and the Pon Q’tar would mean the
end of Shashida. With our civilization gone, the Pon Q’tar could turn their full efforts toward finding
a way across the Tolenkas to your side of the world. One day they will eventually succeed, or
perhaps Vespasian might use his banned spells to do it for them. No matter how it happens, your
sister and her meager forces will never stop them. Their next step would be to destroy the Vigors
Orb, just as Wulfgar twice tried to do and failed. But the Pon Q’tar will not fail. With the Vigors
destroyed, the world will plunge into a craftless, endless chaos from which it will never recover.
The many gifts of peace, order, and balance that the craft provides will be no more, and
barbarism will forever reign. The Pon Q’tar embrace a frame of mind in which madness is their
only muse.”
Tristan quietly looked around the table. The War of Attrition is indeed aeons old, he realized. And
after all this time, things are about to change radically. Vespasian will be the catalyst of this
seismic shift in the craft, and it falls to me to try to stop him.
“There can be but one way that you are so well informed,” Wigg suggested. After taking another
sip of umake he set the cup back on the table, then placed his hands into opposite robe sleeves.
“You’ve placed a spy in their midst, haven’t you?” he asked. “Given the quality of your information,
this must be a person of some importance in Rustannica. And brave, too, considering the heinous
things we have heard about the place. You have my compliments. Inserting a spy into the upper
reaches of the Rustannican power elite was surely no easy feat. I suspect that doing so took a
very long time, and that this asset is of immense value to you.”
“You are correct,” Haru replied. “Her name is Julia Idaeus. Not only is she the reigning Femiculi,
she is also a member of the League of Whispers. The League is a secret society in Rustannica
made up entirely of Shashidan mystics who feign loyalty to the empire and adopt Rustannican
names. Unknown to the Pon Q’tar, two of the Priory’s many Sisters are League members. After
gaining the post of Femiculi, Julia was able to influence the Pon Q’tar into unknowingly accepting
another League woman into the sisterhood. Her name is Agrippina Sertorius.”
“How did the League come about?” Tyranny asked.
“During the early days of the war, the Borderlands did not exist, and it was far easier to enter
Rustannica than now,” Midori answered. “We asked for volunteers of right-leaning endowed blood
to go and live in Rustannica with the understanding that they could never return home. Tens of
thousands of loyal Shashidan men and women offered to join the newly forming League. The
selection process was rigorous. So as to constantly disguise his or her blood, each volunteer had
to be an expert mystic. In the end, more than two thousand were chosen.” Renjiro took another
sip of umake and looked around the table.
“After being trained in certain specialized gifts, they were secretly inserted into Rustannica by way
of azure portals,” he added. “To avoid being seen, they were sent to sparsely populated areas,
then told to make their way to the cities and begin Rustannican lives. Because they had endowed
blood and large sums of gold were transported with them, they soon became well-respected
krithians. This part of the ruse was needed because only krithians can rise to positions of power
in Rustannica. Most are acquainted with at least some of their fellow League members. If not,
they can identify one another by way of whispered code phrases that have remained largely
unchanged for aeons. Despite their wealth and status, their lives are difficult, and they live in
constant fear of being found out. Each member carries a death forestallment in his or her blood
that allows for instantaneous suicide without need of a physical weapon. We could not grant them
time enchantments for fear of drawing undue attention their way. To avoid the adulteration of their
right-leaning blood and to maintain the survival of the League, they can only marry other League
members. Finding a mate is often difficult, but they manage. To help in that regard, many
marriages are secretly arranged at childhood.”
“Do you mean to say that the League members now living in Rustannica were all born there?”
Tristan asked. “They must have been, because so much time has passed. It would also follow
that your spies are many generations removed from the people you first sent there, and that those
first League members are long dead, and that your current spies have never seen home.”
“That’s right,” Mashiro answered. “When children of right-leaning blood are born to two League
members, they are raised by them. On reaching a responsible age they are secretly taught our
customs and beliefs as well as those of Rustannica. In this way it was hoped that some of them
might reach stations of prominence in the Rustannican hierarchy. Because League children are
born there, their Rustannican heritage is not questioned, and there is no limit to how high they
might rise. Long ago one League member rose to the rank of Heretic, but he was unknowingly
killed in battle by our troops.”
“But now there is Julia Idaeus, the Priory Femiculi,” Renjiro said. “Julia rose from humble
beginnings and never took a husband or lover so that she might keep her virginity and apply for
Priory membership. To our delight she was accepted, then worked hard and sacrificed much to
become the reigning Femiculi. She is the first and only League member to become a voting
member of the Suffragat, and her loyalty to Shashida is unshakable. Vespasian unwittingly made
a great mistake when he ordered that Julia be a member of the committee responsible for
devising the war plan. Julia is not only conversant with the entire scheme, but she also travels
with the legions to perform the auspiciums. Because of her membership in the Suffragat, she
must be informed of any changes to the battle plan. She communes with us when she can to
supply us with vital information. She is also the lone Suffragat member to whom the citizens may
come bearing their supplications. As such, she is well informed regarding the mood of the
Rustannican citizenry. I daresay that she is more in touch with the common people than is
Gracchus or Vespasian, which is yet another advantage to her position. We cannot
overemphasize her importance to our cause.”
“What are the ‘auspiciums’?” Wigg asked.
“The auspiciums are yet another of the Pon Q’tar’s carefully crafted fabrications,” a male voice
said from across the table.
Tristan looked at the Inkai who had been introduced as Jomei of the House of Water Lilies. Like
Mashiro, he wore a drooping white mustache, and battle scars crisscrossed his aged face like
lines drawn on a wrinkled old war map. His long white hair was pulled behind his head and
secured with the traditional gold ornament. Embroidered white lilies adorned his white silk robe.
Like Faegan’s eyes, Jomei’s seemed to burrow straight into Tristan’s.
“The auspicium is a ritual during which a host of white birds is released into the air by the reigning
Femiculi,” Jomei added. “For propaganda purposes, this is usually done in full view of the
populace, and always in view of the Suffragat. It is supposedly a sign of impending good or bad
fortune and is performed before an important event. The direction in which the birds fly
supposedly indicates whether the venture will succeed. As you might guess, Gracchus uses the
craft to influence the birds’ direction of flight and thus help manipulate popular opinion.”
“And Julia understands that the rituals of the azure flame and the auspiciums are clever frauds?”
Tristan asked.
“Yes,” Jomei answered, “but the Pon Q’tar doesn’t realize that she knows. In many ways Julia’s
existence is a great contradiction. She spent her entire life trying to acquire and hold a position
that she knows is meaningless, yet it is that same meaninglessness that allows her to serve the
highest calling of her right-leaning blood.”
“When will she next commune with you?” Wigg asked.
“When she has important information and can safely do so,” Kaemon answered. “Because of her
dangerous situation, the timing must always be hers. Her survival requires that she perform the
most delicate of balancing acts—that is, deciding when her information is of enough value to risk
performing a communion. It took aeons for a League of Whispers member to rise to such a lofty
station as reigning Femiculi, and we can’t afford to lose her.”
“You mentioned that Vespasian might not know that his blood holds the banned forestallments,”
Tristan said to Mashiro. “What leads you to that theory?”
“Julia informs us that the emperor has been behaving strangely,” Mashiro answered. “During a
recent coliseum spectacle he was taken ill and had to leave. As far as we know, Vespasian has
never been sick a day in his life. The banned gifts in his blood might be adversely affecting him.
His recent episode is not proof of our theory, but Julia is watching him closely, and she will report
any other aberrant behavior that she sees. The other reason is that he made no mention of the
banned forestallments when he proposed this unprecedented campaign to the Suffragat. Had he
known, he would likely have assured the Suffragat of his willingness to use every power at his
disposal. Moreover, one of the Pon Q’tar—Gracchus, most likely—would surely have demanded
it. This is not Vespasian’s first command. He has led other strikes into Shashida, some of them
quite successful. Admittedly, not one of them was the size or scope of this latest one. But if he
had known about his gifts during previous campaigns, he would have surely used them.”
“Are you saying that the Pon Q’tar might have imbued these forestallments into his blood without
telling him?” Tyranny asked. “Why would they do that?”
“You must never underestimate the Pon Q’tar’s legendary paranoia,” Hoshi answered. “Their
marked tendencies toward suspicion and distrust—even of others who share their blood
lean—were one of the prime causes of the War of Attrition. Although Vespasian is the ultimate
product of their depravity, that doesn’t mean that they trust him. Despite the emperor’s supreme
command of the Vagaries, the banned spells are so powerful and tempting that if he knew about
them, even he might be unable to resist their use. Doing so without the supervision of the Pon
Q’tar could be disastrous, even to them. Or perhaps Vespasian’s blood or psyche wasn’t mature
enough until now to survive the forestallments’ use and so the Pon Q’tar did not tell him. It stands
to reason that the forestallments were granted to him while he was too young to remember, or
while he was in a suppressed mental state induced by the Pon Q’tar, or both. With the maturation
of his blood, these banned forestallments might be calling out to his mind, begging to be used.
This could be the reason for his recent episode and why the empress seemed so eager to rush
him away. Now that the Rustannican treasury is at the breaking point, had Vespasian not
suggested this campaign, the Pon Q’tar would surely have proposed something very much like it.
In a way, he played right into their hands. The Pon Q’tar’s ultimate weapon is ready for use, and
his name is Vespasian Augustus.”
“If that’s true, then why don’t they influence Vespasian to use his gifts straightaway?” Wigg asked.
“For the Pon Q’tar, one need stands far above the rest,” Kaemon answered. “If Vespasian uses
the banned spells first, our gold supplies might be scattered to oblivion. Remember, the research
in banned spells that the Pon Q’tar has presumably carried out since the Borderlands Treaty likely
remains untested. If so, even they cannot fully know what the results might be. Despite their other
goals, the Pon Q’tar needs our gold to maintain order at home. The gold simply must be secured
and sent back to Rustannica before Shashida is decimated. Even the Pon Q’tar can’t risk national
bankruptcy.”
“But there is a more compelling reason why we believe that Vespasian’s blood carries these
special gifts,” Hoshi said. “For research purposes, we once asked for a Shashidan volunteer of
highly endowed blood into whom we might impart our own environmental spells. We had no intent
to unleash them, but a host was needed to continue our studies. The results were much like what
Julia sees in Vespasian, but far worse because of the volunteer’s less powerful blood.”
“What happened to him?” Tristan asked.
Hoshi’s face took on a sad look. “He succumbed to crippling mental terrors and died soon after,”
she answered softly. “But he lived long enough for us to recognize the same signs in Vespasian,
should Julia report them.”
“There remains another reason why we must believe that Vespasian carries these banned spells
in his blood and that the Pon Q’tar will soon unleash him on us,” Mashiro said quietly.
“And what is that?” Wigg asked.
“It’s too dangerous not to,” the worried elder answered softly.
For several moments no one spoke. Tristan looked out through the colonnaded far wall into the
lush gardens to see that night was approaching. There was still much to learn, he realized. But
one supreme mystery still haunted him. It was the same one that had burned in his soul since first
discovering the Caves of the Paragon and learning that his and Shailiha’s blood and destiny were
special. He was the Jin’Sai, but even now he didn’t fully understand what that meant, or who he
really was.
“Miriam tried to tell me something just before she died,” he said to Mashiro, “but she never
finished the sentence. She said: ‘Your parents weren’t…,’ and then she passed. Can you tell me
what she meant?”
“Perhaps,” Mashiro answered. “But it would only be an old man’s guess.”
“Tell me,” Tristan asked.
“Had she lived, Miriam would have probably said that your parents weren’t selected.”
“Selected?” Tristan asked.
“It has to do with why your and Vespasian’s blood is so special,” Hoshi answered. “The
appearance of your supreme blood quality was a very rare but also a natural occurrence.
Vespasian’s, however, was engineered by the Heretics and the Pon Q’tar.”
“What do you mean?” Wigg asked.
“Like the Consuls of the Redoubt who serve your Conclave, the Rustannican Heretics serve the
Pon Q’tar,” Hoshi said. “Many are legionary officers, second in power only to the eighty tribunes.
But others of them once followed another, darker purpose. For aeons it was their task to examine
the blood signatures of all newborn endowed Rustannican infants. They searched for one specific
female blood signature and one male signature. Many centuries ago they found the female, and
they kidnapped her. When she reached her prime childbearing years, she was granted the time
enchantment so that she would grow no older. She was imprisoned in luxurious surroundings in
Ellistium and zealously guarded by the Pon Q’tar as they waited for the needed male signature
holder to be found. Fifty Seasons of New Life ago, that male child finally came to light. Thirty years
later he reached his sexual peak, then he and the woman were forced to mate under the watchful
eyes of the Pon Q’tar until she conceived. The result was Vespasian Augustus I. He was taken
from his parents and suckled by numerous veiled wet nurses so that no maternal or parental
attachments would form in his psyche. From the day of his birth, his only ‘parents’ and mentors
have been the Pon Q’tar.”
Tristan shook his head. “It’s monstrous,” he breathed. “Are you saying that he has no knowledge
of his true past?”
“Precisely,” Jomei answered. “But there is more to this twisted tale. Immediately after Vespasian
was born, his mother and father were again locked away in separate prisons. We surmise that
they remain alive. Vespasian is unaware of their existence. He and Persephone believe that
Vespasian was an orphan, raised and trained by the Pon Q’tar out of the ‘goodness’ of their
hearts.”
“I can understand why the Pon Q’tar wants Vespasian to believe that his parents are dead,”
Tyranny mused. “It helps to ensure his loyalty. But why does the Pon Q’tar keep Vespasian’s
parents alive? Surely their continued existence represents a threat to the Pon Q’tar’s credibility
should Vespasian somehow learn the truth. His rage over how they have been treated might be
incalculable.”
“Can’t you guess?” Wigg asked the privateer.
“They want to be able to bring another child of Vespasian’s blood into the world, should their first
creation fail them,” Tristan breathed. He shot a questioning look at Mashiro.
“That’s it, isn’t it?” he asked. “That’s also what you meant when you said that to save both sides of
the craft, Rustannica and the Pon Q’tar must first be totally defeated. If Vespasian is killed and
the Pon Q’tar live, they can do the same monstrous thing again.”
“Yes,” Midori said. “The thirty or so years needed to bring another such abomination to manhood
or womanhood is but a blink of an eye in the maze that is the craft. All that the Pon Q’tar wants
from Vespasian is for him to use his potent blood to help take our gold and then summon the
banned forestallments that will reduce Shashida to ashes. To them he is simply a tool of war—a
means to an end and nothing more. Persephone was betrothed to him in an arranged marriage in
hopes of keeping him from pursuing and impregnating other women. They even went so far as to
cast spells over the empress, making it impossible for her to conceive. They add credibility to
their supposed compassion for her plight by giving her useless potions said to enhance her
fertility. She is told that the worthless concoctions might help, but in truth the Pon Q’tar doesn’t
want Vespasian to father children. Being a father would create a needless distraction from his
ceaseless training in the craft and might produced an unwanted reluctance in him to risk his life
for their cause. When he has served their purposes, they might well kill him. Some sort of terrible
accident, no doubt, that can be explained away to a grieving populace. He remains too great a
threat to their power for him to live into old age.”
“Who are Vespasian’s parents?” Tyranny asked. “Where did they come from?”
“The girl was found in a peasant village in the Rustannican highlands,” Midori answered. “The boy
came from a well-placed krithian family in Ellistium. To maintain secrecy the children’s families
were killed by elite legionary assassins, and the murders were blamed on thieves and cutthroats
who were never ‘caught.’”
“How can you know all this?” Tristan asked Mashiro. “Julia is too young to have told you these
things.”
“Do you remember my saying that one of the League members rose to the rank of Heretic but that
he was killed in battle?” Mashiro answered.
Tristan nodded.
“That man found the boy child who would later become Vespasian’s father,” Mashiro answered.
“He was also one of the few Heretics who were granted full knowledge and participation in the
Pon Q’tar’s plan. Part of his duties included guarding the imprisoned woman who became
Vespasian’s mother. As a reward he was granted the time enchantment, and he lived for
centuries. Being forced to participate in that travesty for so long nearly drove him to madness, but
he persisted and was able to commune with us often. By then Julia had risen to the station of
Priory Sister, and she and the League ‘Heretic’ knew each other. It was she who told us of his
death, a terrible blow to our cause. Vespasian’s parents still lived at the time of our rebel Heretic’s
death. But we have no way of knowing whether that is still the case, for even Julia has not been
made privy to that information. Even so, keeping them alive would seem to be in the Pon Q’tar’s
best interests, would it not?”
“In a strange way I’m almost sorry for Vespasian,” Tristan said.
Mashiro sternly shook his head. “I understand how you feel,” he said. “But you cannot afford to
sympathize with his plight, Jin’Sai. If you meet him on the battlefield you must strike quickly and
with everything you have. He is the ultimate product of the Vagaries, and he would as soon kill us
as draw his next breath—you above all.”
“And what about me and Shailiha?” Tristan asked. “You said that our blood signatures occurred
naturally. What did you mean?”
Mashiro smiled. “Unlike Vespasian’s parents, yours found one another on their own. Wigg and the
other Directorate Wizards chose Nicholas I to be king, and Nicholas later took Morganna as his
queen. Your parents’ union was natural, as were your and your sister’s twin births. Unknown to
your father, mother, and the late Directorate, Nicholas and Morganna carried the supreme male
and female blood signature halves needed to produce the Jin’Sai and the Jin’Saiou. Your parents
were each of highly endowed blood, to be sure. But only when these two magnificently powerful
and opposing gender blood signature halves join to form a new one does the resulting child’s
blood take on such transcendent strength. You and Shailiha became those two children. In the
entire history of your world, only three other such random pairings occurred. This also means that
your blood signature and Shailiha’s are identical with that of every Jin’Sai and Jin’Saiou who
preceded you.”
“And the previous Jin’Sais and Jin’Saious that the Scroll Master spoke of,” Tristan said, “were they
our forebears?”
“In a way, they were,” Kaemon answered. “But as you can imagine, for the vast majority of
recorded time these two supremely gifted blood signature halves drifted apart from one another
as they resided in various people’s blood and were handed down from generation to generation.
You and your sister are the first and only Jin’Sai and Jin’Saiou born to royalty. Nicholas and
Morganna were more than just your parents—they were also the human vessels that carried the
transcendent blood signature halves for a short time. They made you and Shailiha who you are,
and you are right to keep on loving them and holding your memories of them dear.”
Tristan sat in respectful silence for a moment, remembering. Then another question occurred to
him. “Save for its lean, is my blood signature identical to Vespasian’s?” he asked.
Mashiro shook his head. “We do not know. Our rebel Heretic had no opportunity to see
Vespasian’s blood signature before he was killed, nor has Julia. Our scholars believe that they are
probably different in appearance but equally powerful.”
“But what is it that gives these two—or should I say four—uniquely powerful signature halves
such amazing qualities?” Wigg asked. “Why does their joining create people of such
transcendent blood?”
“Our scholars have long believed that it has something to do with the two orbs,” Renjiro
answered. “That the orbs perhaps somehow influenced their evolution—one pair for the Vigors,
another for the Vagaries. Each pair produces vastly different tendencies, to be sure, but they are
probably equally powerful. In truth even we do not know. If we survive to defeat Rustannica,
perhaps that will be one of the mysteries we will solve together. Aside from that, who is to say
why these unique blood signatures produce such talented and extraordinary mystics? Why do
some of us become geniuses of science and mathematics, or great prodigies in music and art?
Nature still has her ways, and I daresay we humble humans have yet to fully understand them.”
Tristan again looked through the gaps in the colonnade to the gardens lying beyond. The sun had
set in earnest, and the various night creatures had started singing. A cool wayward breeze flowed
through the magnificently appointed gardens, its invisible tentacles sometimes reaching into the
room to gently caress his face. They brought with them unfamiliar scents, sounds, and seemingly
even greater mysteries.
Because of the many things he had learned this day, Tristan had at last found a sense of quiet
peace in Shashida that he had known nowhere else. At last he knew who he really was, and how
he and Shailiha had come to be, and why. Questions remained, but he understood enough to put
his heart at rest—at least for now.
Then his eyes caught the lovely Hoshi’s once more. He was about to speak to her when Mashiro
garnered his attention. Leaning over the table slightly, the Inkai elder gave the three newcomers a
serious look.
“It is late,” he said. “I fully understand that you have more questions, but the three of you should
retire. But before you leave us, there is something more that you need to know. You will probably
find the news disturbing.”
“What is it?” Wigg asked quietly.
“You three brave travelers and everyone still aboard your Black Ships will likely never see Eutracia
again,” Mashiro said. “Like us, you have become trapped on this side of the world. Because of
this, you should consider making Shailiha the Queen of Eutracia. Tristan will likely never return
home, and Eutracia must have a ruler.”
Tristan looked over at Wigg and Tyranny to see resigned expressions. Wigg nodded; Tyranny
took a deep breath and tried to give Tristan a reassuring smile.
All the expedition members who had come with Tristan had done so willingly and with the
knowledge that if they reached Shashida, they might never return home. But now that possibility
had become fact, and the stark reality was settling in.
Tristan was not concerned for himself. He would miss Eutracia, the other Conclave members,
and most of all his sister. But with Celeste dead, and knowing that his destiny lay here, he was
content to stay. Wigg had lost Abbey, so there was now less reason for him to return home even
if he could. Tyranny was not romantically involved, as far as Tristan knew; her great love was for
the Black Ships. With the Ellistium destroyed and the Cavalon damaged beyond use, the only
serviceable Black Ships resided on this side of the world. Tristan couldn’t know whether she
might command the great vessels again, but for her sake he hoped that she would. The other
Conclave mystics who had traveled here with him had left no mates behind, and Tristan had
insisted that the Minion warriors who accompanied him be unattached.
But in the end none of that mattered, for the die was cast. Reaching Shashida meant starting new
lives—lives that would surely be filled with wonder and amazement. But they would also be
dangerous lives that would test the limits of their courage and faith in the Vigors. What Tristan,
Wigg, and Tyranny didn’t know was why they couldn’t return home. Pursing his lips with thought,
the Jin’Sai turned to look at Mashiro.
“We all knew that if we reached Shashida we might never see Eutracia again,” Tristan said. “But
before we retire, please tell us—why are we all trapped here? What keeps everyone from
crossing the Tolenka Mountains? Why can’t we sail the Black Ships back the way we came?”
“The story is a complicated one,” Mashiro answered, “and even we do not fully understand it.
Because the hour is late, I will be brief. When the Pon Q’tar first used the spells that were later
banned by the Borderlands Treaty, their calculations were crude by today’s standards and
resulted in acts of the craft that were nearly uncontrollable. As you know, when the Pon Q’tar
employed them, the Tolenka mountain range unexpectedly arose and the land mass separated to
create the Sea of Whispers. We too had immense difficulties trying to control our versions of the
spells. One such spell was designed to create the Azure Sea and the stone maze that would
allow only persons of right-leaning blood to sail back and forth across it and to move easily from
one side of the world to the other. When we realized that the spell was going awry, we created the
Tome and the Vigors Scroll to leave behind for future generations of right-leaning blood to find and
use. Some of us—like the Scroll Master and the Watchwoman of the Floating
Gardens—volunteered to stay behind in hiding, in the hope that Vigors practitioners would find
them and that they might help you to better understand the workings of the craft. But even they
could not tell you about crossing the Azure Sea because it did not yet exist. Like the Pon Q’tar’s
best efforts, ours too went awry. After the Azure Sea and the stone maze that brought you here
formed, the spell took on a life of its own. That is the major drawback to the banned spells—in
some cases they seem to come alive to create their own sentience and purpose. To our
amazement, it evolved further and of its own choosing. Since that fateful day, we have not been
able to undo it.”
“Amazing,” Wigg said. “What was the result?”
“As you know, the spell allows travel from east to west across the Azure Sea, but only by those
possessing right-leaning blood, lest the maze’s course become different and continually repeat
itself,” Jomei answered. “Regardless of one’s blood—be that blood unendowed or endowed of
any type—should he or she try to sail the Azure Sea and head east, the maze walls rise, but
afterward they join, crushing everything and everyone caught between them. You were lucky. Had
you turned your ships around and headed back, everyone aboard them would have suffered that
terrible fate. Despite our scholars’ best efforts, no answer to repairing the spell has been found.
And even if one was devised, using it would violate the Borderlands Treaty, because its
calculations are environmental. Even so, if the Rustannican break the treaty, our survival will
mean that we must do the same.”
“But that is not to say that others of right-leaning blood can’t come from east to west,” Tristan
said.
“True,” Mashiro answered. “But before doing so, they should be warned that they can never
return.”
“Why can’t the Tolenkas be crossed from this side?” Tyranny asked.
“We are stymied by the same limitations as those living in the east,” Midori answered. “The
mountains are simply too high for even us to cross. The air becomes so thin that every mystic
group we sent up the mountainsides returned in failure. Despite much trying, we have found no
spell to overcome this obstacle. The Pon Q’tar’s early spell that unexpectedly created the
mountain range also developed a life of its own. To this day it morphs to protect its matrix against
tampering.”
“If that is true, then the craft has entered a dangerous and startling new phase,” Wigg said. “Or
should I say, new to us three.”
“Indeed,” Mashiro answered.
“Because we can’t go back, you are right about the need for Shailiha to become queen,” Tristan
said to Mashiro. He looked over at Wigg. “Do you agree?” he asked.
Wigg nodded. “She is the rightful heir, and her time has come,” he said.
“Before you retire, there is something that I must ask you, Jin’Sai,” Mashiro said. “Can you decide
soon whether you will help us to defeat Vespasian? As we said, to do this we must grant you the
banned forestallments. Because of their great power, it is likely that even we cannot imbue your
blood with these gifts without causing you great physical pain. If you choose not to help us, no
shame will be attached to your decision. But if the answer is to be yes, we must alter our war
plan, and time is precious. We also understand that all this news is overwhelming and that you
will need time to decide. But know this: Our futures and the survival of the craft are inexorably tied
to yours. Vespasian and the Pon Q’tar must be defeated, be it now or later. If you accept, we will
do everything in our power to help you.” Mashiro gave Tristan a short smile, and the gleam in his
eyes seemed to brighten.
“After all, even the reigning Jin’Sai does not discover a new world every day,” he added.
Tristan needed no time to decide. From the moment he took a seat at the meeting table, he had
known that this strange land was where he would finally meet his destiny.
“I will answer now,” he said quietly. “I cannot speak for those who accompanied me here, but for
my part I will do all that I can to defeat Rustannica and her servants who wish to destroy us.”
Pausing for a moment, he looked over at Wigg and Tyranny.
“What say you?” he asked. “Are you with us?”
Despite the painful loss of Abbey, Wigg dredged up the semblance of a smile. “I have been alive
for more than three centuries,” he said. “I have loved and lost, and this night I find that is the case
yet again. During all that time, I have striven to learn everything I could about the craft and to
protect it from those who would see it destroyed. And now it seems that the real struggle is about
to start.” The wizard stared into Tristan’s eyes. “I watched you and your sister come into this
world not so long ago,” he added softly. “From that moment forward, I have been and always will
be yours.”
“Thank you,” Tristan answered. He turned to look at Tyranny. She in turn looked at Mashiro before
answering.
“I have no endowed blood,” she said. “I want to help, but how?”
Mashiro smiled. “Although you cannot summon the craft, you have unique seafaring talents,” he
answered. “I’m sure that something can be arranged to your liking.”
“Then I’ll join you,” she said. “It’s good for a simple privateer of unendowed blood to know that she
can contribute to the cause.”
Tristan let go a short laugh. He then looked into every face around the table and raised his cup.
Everyone followed suit.
“We’re yours,” he said. He raised his cup higher, as did the others.
“To new beginnings!” he offered.
“To new beginnings!” everyone answered.
After draining his cup, Tristan looked across the table to see Hoshi smiling at him. This time her
smile was genuine and offered without reservation.

CHAPTER XLII
AS THE BOY AWAKENED, HE AGAIN FOUND HIMSELF LYING on a cold stone floor. Something
hard lay between him and the stones, biting into his skin and causing him pain. Rubbing his eyes,
he sat up. The familiar room was dark, but this time a burning candle in a golden holder stood
atop the usual wooden stool. The candle seemed out of place, the boy realized, but it provided
some welcome light.
Coming to his feet, he felt an unexpected heaviness clinging to his left hip. He looked down, and
what he saw surprised him. A short sword in a tooled leather scabbard lay there. The scabbard
was attached to a leather belt cinched around his waist. Reaching down, he grasped the sword
hilt and slowly drew the weapon. As the blade came free, it produced a ringing sound.
Holding the sword before the faint candlelight, the boy regarded it carefully. It was at once a
beautiful and a terrible thing, and its weight felt good in his hands. Lowering the sword a bit, he ran
one finger across the blade to find that it was razor sharp.
Still wondering why he had been given such a magnificent weapon, he slid the sword into its
scabbard, then walked to the shabby stool. Taking the candleholder into his hands, he climbed
atop the stool to wait in silence for his master to arrive. Although the sword was a mystery, the
boy believed that he would have the answer soon.
Unlike the times before, today he was unafraid. During his last training session with the still
unidentified master, the boy had lost something but gained far more. His dreaded fear of the
faceless man in the hooded robe was gone, replaced by a strange gift that the master called
K’Shari. With the coming of that gift, rather than dread the imminent arrival of his teacher he
hungered to learn the object of today’s lesson. He was sure that the sword lying at his hip would
be instrumental in his understanding, although he couldn’t imagine how.
The door slowly opened and a shaft of light streamed into the room, hurting the boy’s eyes. This
time I will not look away, he resolved, nor will I cover my face with my hands. I will stay strong and
look into the light with courage.
The robed figure walked into the room. Saying nothing, he placed his hands into opposite robe
sleeves. The boy gazed unafraid into the dark recesses of the empty hood to again see nothing
but blackness. This time the sight did not frighten him, and for a time neither student nor master
spoke. Finally the hooded master took a step nearer.
“You didn’t shield your eyes from the light this time,” he said. “Did its sudden brightness not hurt
them?”
“It did,” the boy answered. “But I now know that keeping my eyes open was needed, despite the
pain it brought.”
“And why would that be?” the master asked.
“Because a warrior cannot fight what he cannot see,” the boy answered. “I could not know who
was entering the room. The pain caused by the light would surely be less than that of being killed
by an unseen enemy.”
“Well done,” the master said. “It is time for your next lesson.” Reaching out, he beckoned the boy
to leave the stool and follow him.
The hallway was just as the boy remembered it. Endless and stark white, it held countless doors
with golden handles. Saying nothing, the master turned left and started walking. The boy followed
willingly, the heaviness of the sword at his side a reminder of its still unexplained presence.
After a long walk the master stopped before a door. He pointed a finger at the golden handle, and
it levered downward. The boy and his master entered the room beyond, the door closing behind
them with quiet finality. The scene before the boy was surprising. Like the hallway, the room was
stark white. Two incongruous things stood before the boy, neither of which made sense to him.
On one side of the room stood a huge white bull. An iron ring was secured through its nostrils,
and a chain led from that ring down to another one embedded into the floor. The bull was
magnificent. Two wide black horns protruded from the top of his skull, each curving forward to
nearly touch the other’s point. His face was broad, his dark eyes wide apart, large, and lustrous.
Strong muscles rippled beneath his skin, and as he stood there he turned to look at the boy.
Everything about the animal conveyed power, courage, and strength.
On the other side of the room stood a large artist’s easel. The simple wooden tripod was two
meters high and one across. It held a stark white canvas, its four sides framed with simple
wooden slats. An identical canvas stood propped against one wall. Save for the deep, rhythmic
breathing of the great bull, the room was silent. Although the scene was bizarre, the boy did not
ask about it, for he knew that the answer would come soon enough.
The master stepped forward to face the boy. The darkness of the hood seemed limitless,
all-knowing.
“Slaughter the bull,” the master ordered. “Do not question my order—simply follow it. Draw your
gladius and kill the beast with a single stroke across its neck.”
The boy did not hesitate. Reaching down to grasp the sword hilt, he pulled the weapon free with a
quickness and economy of movement that he didn’t know he possessed. As the blade appeared,
it shone in the bright light of the room. The boy took three steps toward the white bull and raised
his sword.
Without hesitation he brought the blade around in a perfect arc, slicing the bull’s throat. At once
the arterial spray from the gaping wound showered the boy’s hands and face, but he remained
undaunted. The boy again raised his sword, ready to strike again if need be.
The beast screamed in agony, then slumped to the floor on its massive cloven forelegs. As its
blood poured onto the floor, the mammoth creature’s hind legs also collapsed, and the bull
crashed heavily onto its side. Moments passed as the exsanguination became complete and
deep red blood flowed across the floor to approach the boy’s boots. As if it were second nature,
the boy started to wipe the sword blade against the simple robe he wore, but the master reached
out to stop him.
“No,” the master said. “Do not clean your weapon. Instead, dip it in the warm blood and collect
more of it onto the blade.”
Again the boy obeyed. Walking toward the dead bull, he bent down and ran the flat side of his
sword as best he could through the growing blood pool. When he lifted the blade, the blood ran
freely down the groove and onto his hands. The sight did not deter him.
“Come here,” the master said. “Bring your sword and stand before the easel.”
The boy did as he was told. The stark white canvas was devoid of markings. The master then
walked nearer and reached out to touch the bloody sword. At once it shrank to the size of a
dagger, its blade still covered with dripping blood.
“Hold the dagger not as you would a weapon, but as you would an artist’s paintbrush,” the master
ordered.
The boy scowled, not from a wish to disobey but because he found his master’s words bizarre.
Even so, he adjusted the dagger in his grip, awkwardly holding it as best he could the way an
artist might hold a brush. To his surprise, the blood no longer ran down the blade, but magically
collected near the dagger’s tip.
“Good,” the master said. “Now look at me. Take in my robe, my hands, my faceless hood. Then
use the dagger to paint my image on the canvas in blood. Do the best that you can. When you
have finished I will comment on your effort.”
Again the boy did as he was told, and to his amazement the blood flowed evenly from the dagger
blade onto the canvas, just as paint would from a brush. He did the best he could, but when he
was finished the result was unremarkable. Standing back from the canvas, he told the faceless
one that he was done.
“A poor likeness of me, is it not?” the master asked. “Do not fret, my young charge. The results
were as I expected. Can you tell me why you failed?”
The boy thought for a moment. “The tool was wrong for the task,” he answered.
“True,” the master answered. “But there is more to it. Think.”
Again the boy pondered the question. “I am the wrong person for the job,” he answered. “I am a
warrior, not an artist.”
“Also partly correct,” the master answered. “You are a warrior—that much is true. But because
your blood carries the gift of K’Shari, you are also an artist—a martial artist.”
The master reached out and again touched the bloody blade. At once the dagger morphed back
into the original sword.
“Go to the blood pool and again dip your ‘brush,’” he ordered. “Then return to me.”
As the boy again dipped his sword into the blood, the master waved one arm. The crude, bloody
painting sitting on the easel rose into the air and flew to the far side of the room to land on the
floor. The second blank canvas then levitated to take the place of the first one. The boy returned
with his bloody sword and stood before the fresh canvas.
“This time I want you to call on your gift of K’Shari,” the master said. “I know that the sword is
cumbersome, but wield it as best you can. Use it like a great paintbrush and again try to fashion
my portrait.” Standing back a bit, the master clasped his hands before him and he waited.
The boy called on his new gift. As it came, he felt his blood tingle, telling him that its arrival was a
matter of letting it rise to overtake his senses rather than trying to summon it from his blood. As it
came, he surrendered to it willingly. Soon his sword blade glowed azure beneath the blood.
Again the boy painted his master’s portrait, and this time the result was far different. As he used
the sword, his movements became more abandoned, his strokes surer and more unthinking.
Soon he was wielding the sword as it was intended, using great, swinging strokes and stabbing
lunges as he cast the bloody “paint” onto the canvas. Exhausted, the boy finally stopped, then
stood back from the easel and lowered the bloody sword. What he saw astonished even him.
The once blank canvas now held a perfect image of his master, fashioned from the blood of the
bull. Every nuance of the faceless one had been captured, right down to the haunting feeling the
boy always experienced when looking into the empty hood. Coming nearer, the master laid one
hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“Excellent,” he said. “I could not have hoped for more. Can you tell me the object of today’s
lesson?”
All that the boy could say was to repeat his earlier answer about being the wrong person using the
wrong tool. The master’s hood shook to and fro, telling him he was wrong.
“There is far more to it than that,” he said. “Because the answer is unusually elusive, this time I
will tell you, rather than force you to search for it. As I said before, you are a martial artist, not a
painter. Your task in this world is to take life, not to create beauty. When you summon your gift,
wield your sword like a paintbrush, and your death-dealing will be as flawless in its own way as
the portrait that you just created. Use your sword like a paintbrush, my young charge, and every
stroke of your deadly art will be perfect. As it is now, your sword will again become bloodied, but
no enemy will defeat you.”
“I understand,” the boy said quietly. Lifting the sword before his face, he looked at the drying blood
that still lay on it. How long will it be before my sword blade drips with human blood? he wondered.
“And the bull?” he asked, turning to look into the dark hood. “Why did you have me slaughter the
bull when red paint would have done as well?”
“Would it have?” the master asked. “I think not. I asked you to kill the bull so that your ‘paint’ would
be more meaningful in the context of your lesson. Blood is the source from which all our endowed
gifts flow—there is nothing else like it in the world. I wanted its warmth and texture to flow onto
your hands so that you might understand how it will feel in battle, and what it means to kill.
Slaughtering the bull served another purpose. Sacrificing the strongest and proudest animal in
creation takes heart. It will be that same great sense of heart that will see you through your most
challenging battles.”
The boy nodded. “Thank you for the lesson.”
“It is I who will one day be thanking you,” the faceless one said.
No sooner had the master spoken than the boy heard a voice tugging at his mind. It was a
woman’s voice, he soon realized, coming from somewhere far away. His master was suddenly
gone, as were the dead bull, the blood, and the two canvases. As he felt his consciousness
slipping away, the voice grew louder and more insistent.
“Vespasian,” the somehow familiar voice called out from everywhere, nowhere.
“Vespasian…Vespasian…”

VESPASIAN AWOKE FROM HIS DAY TERROR WITH A GASP. AS he came around, he found
himself lying on his bed in his private tent chambers. Persephone and Lucius sat by his side,
worried expressions on their faces. He had been stripped of his dress armor and lay clothed only
in a silk robe. Exhausted, pale, and bathed in sweat, he looked at them weakly. Then he
remembered what had happened, and panic threatened to seize him anew.
Lucius and I, he thought. On our way to the front…the chariot…the rows of tortured katsugai
mosota…I fainted…
When he again looked into Lucius’ worried face, he knew. More than just he and Persephone now
understood his terrible secret. He had unwittingly drawn his best friend and greatest tribune into
his lie, and for that he would be eternally sorry. Not for himself, he realized, but for his dear friend
who would also be forced to carry this heavy burden of secrecy and intrigue.
After trying to smile at Persephone, he again looked at Lucius. Lucius bent down and clasped his
forearm to Vespasian’s as one legionnaire to another.
“I’m here, my friend,” he said. “Persephone told me all about it. Your secret is safe with me.”
Vespasian was about to answer when Gracchus’ booming voice was heard just outside the
entrance to the emperor’s chambers.
“I don’t care whether the empress left orders not to be disturbed, you fools!” he shouted at the two
centurions standing guard. “There’s been a report that the emperor has been taken ill, and I
demand to see him! Stand aside or there will be two more sudden deaths to add to the legions’
casualty lists!”
Gracchus burst into the tent and immediately rushed to Vespasian’s bed. Remembering her
promise to Vespasian that his secret be kept from the Pon Q’tar at all costs, Persephone angrily
leapt to her feet and confronted the cleric.
“How dare your enter our private quarters without permission!” she shouted. “I could have you
shackled for this intrusion!”
Without responding, Gracchus stopped and looked over Persephone’s shoulder at Vespasian. He
then projected a commanding gaze toward the empress that rattled even her.
“Don’t pretend with me, Persephone,” he said sternly. “Besides, the chains have yet to be forged
that could hold me, and we both know it.” The lead cleric cast another quick glance at the stricken
emperor.
“He has suffered an unconscious terror, hasn’t he?” Gracchus demanded. “You may calm
yourself, Empress, for they were expected. So, at long last they have come—and not a day too
soon, I might add! Your husband isn’t about to die, nor is he ill. Tell me—how many terrors has he
suffered?”
Unsure what to say, Persephone looked at Vespasian. Realizing that Gracchus somehow
understood what was happening, Vespasian nodded his consent.
“This was the third,” Persephone answered angrily. “What is happening to him? Explain yourself,
cleric! I demand to hear what you know of this!”
Ignoring her pleas, Gracchus brushed past her and hurried to Vespasian’s side. Sitting down
beside Lucius, he reached out to take Vespasian’s free hand. The emperor’s skin felt cold and
lifeless.
“What is wrong with me?” Vespasian whispered. “Am I going mad?”
Gracchus smiled and stroked Vespasian’s brow. “No, my liege,” he answered. “You are anything
but mad. Your blood has finally matured to its fullest, and some wondrous gifts that you didn’t
know you owned are calling out to your mind, begging to be used. That’s why the terrors have
come—they are the signs that I have been waiting for. Trust me when I say that despite your
fears, all is well. Tell me of your dream.”
“I slaughtered a bull,” Vespasian said weakly. “I used his blood to paint two portraits…I was but a
young boy…”
“Ah, yes,” Gracchus answered. “I remember.”
Reaching out, Vespasian seized Gracchus’ white and burgundy robe and pulled the cleric nearer.
“How could you possibly remember my dream?” he shouted.
Calling the craft, Gracchus gently freed his robe from Vespasian’s grasp. “Because I was there,”
he answered. “Your day terror was no dream, Vespasian. It was real—they all were.”
Vespasian slumped back down on the bed. “Can you make them stop?” he begged. “I fear that
they will tear my mind apart!”
Shaking his head, Gracchus smiled again. “Only you can make them stop,” he answered.
“How?” Vespasian demanded. “I will do anything!”
“You can stop the terrors by using your untested gifts to help us win this war,” the cleric
answered. “The story is a complicated one, and at long last it is time for you to hear it. Please
allow an old mystic to tell the tale.”
As Gracchus started his story, Persephone approached, and Lucius eyed the cleric cautiously.
As the shadows lengthened outside the tent and day turned into night, Vespasian, his empress,
and the First Tribune found themselves engrossed in Gracchus’ unfolding saga.

CHAPTER XLIII
“YOU BASTARD !” VESPASIAN SCREAMED. “HOW DARE YOU gamble with my life?”
The emperor’s face was red with rage and the cords in his neck tensed as though they were
about to snap. Rising from his bed, Vespasian grabbed Gracchus’ robe and pulled him so close
that their faces nearly touched.
“I should kill you where you stand!” he screamed. “You, and all those other scheming harpies who
make up the Pon Q’tar! You used all of us—me, Lucius, Persephone—the legions, the Priory
—everyone! Is there no end to your treachery?”
Given the depth of Vespasian’s rage, Gracchus knew that he would have but one chance to make
his case. If he failed to convince the emperor here and now, Vespasian would likely kill him on the
spot or send him home to suffer a violent death in the coliseum. At the least he would linger for all
eternity in the Ellistium dungeons.
Just now he had few allies in this war tent. Vespasian was enraged, Persephone would do
anything to protect her husband, and Lucius would like nothing better than to see the Pon Q’tar
stripped of its power. Gracchus knew that he must convince all three that his secret reasons had
been just or suffer Vespasian’s wrath. Just as Gracchus had feared, his explanation of
Vespasian’s special gifts had sent the emperor into a heated frenzy. If Vespasian chose to kill
him, even Gracchus’ vaunted gifts in the craft couldn’t save him from the Blood Royal’s anger.
His rage taking over again, Vespasian summoned the craft, and he threw Gracchus the entire
length of his private quarters. Gracchus landed hard, taking down an ornate table as he crashed
to the ground. Lucius smiled broadly at the sight, and Persephone gave her husband a quick nod
of support.
Gathering himself, Gracchus stiffly arose, then took a seat in an upholstered chair. He could not
overpower Vespasian, so he would be forced to rely on his wits. The success or failure of his
entire life’s work would be decided in the next few moments.
“You haven’t answered me, you piece of filth!” Vespasian snarled. “Give me one good reason why
I shouldn’t kill you here and now!”
“We clerics did what we must to ensure our eventual victory over Shashida, Your Highness,”
Gracchus answered calmly. “The entire Pon Q’tar was in agreement. When you were brought to
us as a helpless orphan, we were astounded to learn that your blood signature held the
long-sought-after Vagaries halves that would one day allow the ultimate supremacy to your blood.
We had searched for such a child for aeons. In the name of Rustannica, we made the best use of
your upbringing that we could. But there remains more to tell you. Should you wish to kill me after
hearing me out, I cannot stop you. But if you want to live and to see Shashida vanquished once
and for all, you will listen to what I have to say.”
At once Lucius stood and drew his gladius. Striding toward the cleric, he placed the point of his
sword beneath Gracchus’ chin and forced it higher.
“You dare to bargain with the emperor’s life?” he demanded.
“I only wish to save him,” Gracchus answered. “Sheathe your sword, Tribune. If you kill me, he will
surely die. There will be nothing that you, the empress, or anyone else will be able to do to stop it.”
“Explain yourself!” Persephone demanded. “No more tricks, cleric!”
Although Gracchus had rehearsed his speech a thousand times in his mind, for his explanation to
succeed, it must be heartfelt and believable. More importantly, Vespasian must be convinced that
what had been done to him was in his own best interests. But Gracchus remained confident of
his chances, for although what he was about to say was not the whole truth, it was the truth
nonetheless. Moreover, the emperor would have little choice but to follow Gracchus’ orders if he
wished to avoid a gruesome and painful death. Taking a deep breath, Gracchus gave Vespasian a
beseeching look.
“Your highness, the Pon Q’tar has long awaited the terrors that you have been experiencing,”
Gracchus said. “But not because we wished to see you harmed. In fact, your continued well-being
is of prime importance to us. The terrors are your blood’s way of calling out to your mind, begging
you to make use of the banned spells. These spells are much evolved from those that caused the
unexpected rise of the Tolenka Mountains so long ago. They are the strongest forestallments ever
conceived by man. Only your blood and the blood of the reigning Jin’Sai can accommodate them
without causing your deaths. By reaching out to your psyche, the spells are indicating that your
blood is finally mature enough to employ them without harm to your person. We enchanted some
memories of your darker youthful training sessions to remain hidden from your consciousness
and to arise only when your blood finally came of age. This is your time, my emperor—the era of
Vespasian Augustus I. There has been none like it in the history of the world, nor is there likely to
be again.”
Vespasian was still seething, but he had calmed enough to resist killing the cleric. With a wave of
one hand he ordered Lucius to sheathe his gladius.
“You said that if I do not listen to you, I will die,” Vespasian demanded. “Explain yourself.”
“We granted you these spells so that one day you might summon unheard-of power and vanquish
Shashida once and for all,” Gracchus answered. “That time has finally come. If you do not heed
my advice, the banned forestallments in your blood will keep causing the terrors to unfold in your
mind. The banned forestallments and the memories of your training sessions were planted in your
psyche by me and the other Pon Q’tar clerics while you were still young. It had to be this way lest
you become too powerful and perhaps choose to refuse the forestallments because their use
would violate the Borderlands Treaty. Even so, far darker sessions still linger in your
subconscious. Many of them were put there before you lost your youthful fear of me, such as the
one during which you watched the two dogs fight to the death. If they keep surfacing, they will
drive you mad, the madness soon leading to your death. In the end, they will literally tear your
mind apart.”
“You toyed with my very life!” Vespasian shouted, his rage surfacing again. “You took a great
chance, did you not? How could you be sure that you would recognize the signs before the terrors
killed me?”
“It was a certainty that as the terrors increased in frequency and strength, you would be taken ill,”
Gracchus replied. “I must admit that you did an excellent job of keeping them a secret, for even
we of the Pon Q’tar did not know. Even so, they would soon have become so terrible that you
would have been forced to seek out our help. So you see, the end result would have been the
same.”
His thoughts racing, Vespasian started angrily pacing the tent. So much of his world had been
irrevocably turned upside down that he scarcely knew what to believe. After a time he stopped
pacing and looked Gracchus in the eyes.
“Is this all that I am to you?” he demanded. “Am I but some ultimate tool of the craft that you would
use for your own purposes? Why didn’t you tell me about this before now?”
Despite the emperor’s anger, Gracchus realized that Vespasian was reaching out to him, begging
to understand. Now is the moment, Gracchus thought. I must console him and reclaim my role as
his mentor and his friend. Only then will he do what we ask of him.
Rising from his chair, Gracchus walked across the room and took Vespasian’s hands into his.
“It was for your own good that we did not tell you,” Gracchus answered. “Had you known, we
believe that the temptation to use the banned spells would have been far too great for even your
will to resist. Using them without our guidance could have killed you, and at the very least, might
have resulted in harm to Rustannica. We need each other, Vespasian, and the time has come.
You cannot resist or ignore the spells. If you wish to survive, you must activate one of them. Only
then will you have attained all that the craft has to offer and cause the terrors to stop.”
The anger in Vespasian’s eyes flashed again. “What other lies have you told me?” he asked. “If I
learn that you have deceived me further, your life won’t be worth a single sesterce!”
“Nothing, my liege,” Gracchus answered. “I swear it.”
“How do I end the terrors?” Vespasian asked.
“Use one of the banned forestallments and the terrors will forever vanish,” Gracchus answered.
“Once one of them has been employed, your blood signature will sense it, and the spell that
brings your long-repressed memories to the surface will be lifted.”
“There is no other way to break the spell aside from using one of the banned forestallments?”
Persephone asked.
“No,” Gracchus answered. “Even we of the Pon Q’tar cannot otherwise undo it. It was conceived
this way for a reason.”
“Indeed,” Vespasian answered skeptically. “It must be done your way, or I die.”
“That is true,” Gracchus answered. “But rather than being enraged by this news, I suggest that
you look upon it as the final step in the long process that will bring you supreme mastery in the
craft. When it is accomplished, you will thank me, I promise you. You will be known all through
history as the Rustannican emperor who finally destroyed Shashida and the Vigors.”
“How does he go about using one of these gifts?” Lucius demanded angrily. His tone said that as
always, he still mistrusted the cleric’s motives.
“Vespasian must use one of the banned gifts now—this very day—so that his terrors are forever
put to rest,” Gracchus answered. Smiling, he raised one hand and gripped the shoulder folds of
his robe. “I suggest that he begin with the town to which we currently lay siege,” he added.
“That means violating the Borderlands Treaty!” Vespasian protested. “We have honored that
agreement for untold centuries!”
“That is also true,” Gracchus replied. “But if you do not violate the treaty, you will die, and the
Vagaries might be forever defeated here and now. The choice seems clear.”
As Vespasian considered Gracchus’ words, he suddenly remembered the katsugai mosota he
had killed only hours before, and the dire warning that the Shashidan had given him. Vespasian
and Lucius had dismissed it as a lie, but now the emperor wasn’t so sure.
“There is something that you need to know,” Vespasian told Gracchus. “At first I thought it was
nothing more than the desperate ravings of a dying man. But now it seems to have greater
importance.”
“Tell me,” Gracchus said.
“A captured katsugai told me that he had recently come from the south,” Vespasian answered,
“and that he was privy to secret information. He said that the Jin’Sai was trying to cross the Azure
Sea. If that is true—”
“It is true,” Gracchus interrupted. “The Viper Lord tried to kill Tristan at the edges of the Azure Sea,
but he failed. We cannot know whether the Jin’Sai has reached Shashida, but we must assume
that he has. It is all the more reason to take the initiative and be the first to use the banned spells!
Think for a moment, Vespasian! There can be only one reason why the Chikara Inkai would
welcome the Jin’Sai into their midst! They wish to imbue his blood with banned forestallments as
well! Now there is surely no choice—we must violate the Borderlands Treaty first, before they can
give the Jin’Sai such powers and order him to do the same! And if the Jin’Sai is indeed there, we
will finally succeed in killing him! Right now we may still have the upper hand, but if we wait until
he reaches Shashida, the moment will be lost forever! But before we completely destroy
Shashida, the gold mines must be safely in our possession, for we must first ensure that we can
maintain stability at home. Without greatly adding to our treasury, a revolt is an eventual certainty.”
Vespasian tiredly walked to a chair and sat down. The issues that had been put before him were
earthshaking. The longer he considered Gracchus’ words, the more difficult his decision became.
He had to agree that the Pon Q’tar’s scheme would likely succeed. If his gifts were in fact as
powerful as Gracchus claimed, using them would likely mean taking the gold mines, vanquishing
Shashida once and for all, and forever ending Vigors use on this side of the world. The Jin’Sai
would be dead, and the only remaining impediment to the world domination of the Vagaries would
be the Jin’Saiou. Moreover, his terrors would end and his life would be spared.
Despite all these temptations, Vespasian hesitated. As Emperor of Rustannica, he had strictly
abided by her laws and agreements—especially the Borderlands Treaty. Vespasian had not been
one of those who so long ago devised and ratified that agreement, but like every emperor since
then, he had respected it.
Vespasian was a devout Vagaries worshipper, but what Gracchus was asking him to do would
clearly violate not only the treaty, but also his personal sense of honor. Millions would die by his
hand, and the earth’s devastation might be forever unredeemable. That was the very reason the
Borderlands Treaty had been proposed by the Shashidans and later agreed to by both sides. His
mind awash with concern, Vespasian looked worriedly at Gracchus.
“Can you guarantee that only Shashida will be destroyed?” Vespasian asked. “I know nothing of
these spells. I must have your assurances that they can be controlled!”
“Like these spells, your blood is the most potent known to man,” Gracchus answered. “We
believe that they can be controlled, but only by you and the Jin’Sai. Despite their immense power,
you will find summoning them to be a relatively simple matter. Controlling their use will be more
difficult, but not impossible. I will teach you all that you need to know. If Shashida is to be crushed
and the Jin’Sai killed, these spells must be used. Only they can provide the raw power needed to
do so—to say nothing of saving your life.”
“And what of my personal legacy?” Vespasian asked. “Can you guarantee that as well? I desire
nothing more than to be known as the emperor who finally accomplishes these wondrous things.
But the Borderlands Treaty is well known throughout Rustannica, and I have no wish to be the first
emperor to violate it. If I do, history might not be as kind to me as you predict.”
Gracchus smiled. “We rule Rustannica,” he answered, “not the citizens. Our history has always
been what we make of it. If we die trying to win this war, it won’t matter. Should we win, just as we
censor the meetings of the Suffragat, we can easily explain our victory to the Rustannican
citizens in any way that we like. If you do not wish to be known as the emperor who first violated
the treaty, we will say that the Shashidans were the aggressors. Always remember that history is
written by the victors, not the vanquished.”
Vespasian looked over at Persephone to see worry on her lovely face. Although at first she had
been enraged, now more than anything she worried for her husband’s life. If that meant violating
the treaty, so be it. After taking a deep breath, she gave Vespasian a nod, indicating her
agreement.
Persuading the First Tribune would be another matter. As Vespasian turned to look at him, a dark
look overcame Lucius’ face. He hated Gracchus, and he had never tried to hide it. Hearing that the
lead cleric had duped them all for the sake of the craft had seemingly angered Lucius more than
anyone. Even so, he recognized the need to go forward with Gracchus’ plan, for it seemed that
the opportunity was far too tempting to squander. And so he too would consent to Gracchus’
wishes. But in payment for his agreement he would first demand his pound of flesh.
Raising one arm, he quickly pointed it at the lead cleric. At once Gracchus’ throat started to
constrict as though someone had slipped a rope around it and was strangling him. Although
Gracchus was a powerful craft practitioner, so was Lucius. If Lucius could subdue Gracchus fast
enough, the cleric would likely be unable to summon enough power to strike back. As Gracchus
choked and struggled, Lucius levitated the cleric off his feet. Then he looked at Vespasian.
The emperor nodded. “Very well,” he said. “Because of his treachery, you may have your fun. Just
see that he doesn’t die.”
With Gracchus firmly in his power, Lucius walked over to stand before him. By this time there
was nothing that Gracchus could do to break Lucius’ hold over him. Placing his hands on his hips,
Lucius looked up into Gracchus’ eyes.
The cleric’s face was growing red and his feet were wildly kicking as if trying to gain a purchase
on thin air. Saying nothing, Lucius let him linger a bit longer. As precious seconds ticked by, drool
started forming in the corners of the cleric’s mouth, then ran down his chin and onto his white and
burgundy robe.
“Should any harm befall the emperor because of your secret spells, or should I learn that you
have withheld any part of the truth, I’ll see to it that you and every other Pon Q’tar member dies,”
he said quietly. “You are not in Ellistium, Gracchus. Your fawning citizenry is not here to protect
you. And unlike them, you do not command my worship. Instead, you are surrounded by hundreds
of legions, each of which owes its allegiance first to Vespasian, then to the empress, and then to
me. They would as soon see you die as I would. I suggest that you remember that.”
Finally releasing his grip on Gracchus, Lucius let him crash to the floor.
Gracchus fell hard, causing Vespasian to wonder whether Lucius had miscalculated and killed
him. Then the cleric gasped. Coughing wildly, he spat up more drool, then finally sat up. As he
recovered, he looked at Lucius with hate-filled eyes.
One day you will pay dearly for this insult, First Tribune, he thought as he shakily came to his
feet. No one dares treat the lead cleric this way and lives. But that will not be today. Today my
only goal is to initiate my ultimate war weapon, and so I shall.
Weakened but undaunted, Gracchus ignored Lucius and looked into Vespasian’s eyes.
Everything had come down to this moment.
“May I have your answer, my liege?” he asked, his voice hoarse. “The time is now. Not only does
the war effort need you, but your next terror could come at any time. If so, it might kill you.”
Vespasian found much of the cleric’s proposal unpleasant, but he realized that he had little
choice. Besides, he reasoned, if for some reason the Pon Q’tar had wanted him dead, they had
had ample chances to kill him before now. Striding toward Gracchus, the emperor looked sternly
into his eyes.
“I will do what you ask of me,” he said. “But hear me well, cleric. You and Lucius are both right.
There are no citizens here to protect you, and only the victors write history—including yours.
Should any harm befall me from these secret spells, I hereby grant Lucius and Persephone the
right to avenge me in any way they see fit, including the total elimination of the Pon Q’tar. Do we
understand each other?”
Gracchus fell to his knees and kissed the back of Vespasian’s hand.
“Agreed, my liege,” he answered. “You will soon command wonders of the craft that the rest of us
can only dream of. To begin, you must order a full-scale retreat of our forces from the riverside
village that they continue to sack.”
Vespasian gave Gracchus a suspicious look. “Why?” he demanded.
Gracchus came to his feet. “Because they are no longer needed,” he answered with a smile.
Vespasian turned toward Lucius. “Make it so,” he ordered.
“But my liege!” Lucius protested. “We have lost many legionnaires in this latest struggle! Only
now are we starting to gain control of the city! The gold mines lie just beyond! If we abandon our
fight, what message does that send to our troops?”
“It sends the message that their emperor is still in command of these forces!” Vespasian shouted
back. “I’m not asking for your permission, Lucius! Besides, I should think that you would be eager
to put the cleric’s words to the test! Should I be harmed, you and Persephone can take your
revenge in any way that you like!”
“Even if we order a retreat by azure portals, it will take at least three hours,” Lucius countered.
“Then I suggest that you start now,” Vespasian answered.
Clearly upset, Lucius would nonetheless do as his emperor ordered. Gathering up his helmet, he
strode angrily from the tent and into the night. At once he could be heard barking out orders that
the other tribunes would find nearly impossible to believe. Pouring two cups of wine, Persephone
gave one to Vespasian, and the three Rustannican rulers listened as Lucius’ voice faded into the
night.
As they waited, Gracchus further detailed Vespasian’s many new gifts and how to use them. As
the cleric talked on, Vespasian and Persephone could scarcely believe their ears.


FOUR HOURS LATER, VESPASIAN, GRACCHUS, PERSEPHONE, and Lucius stood atop the
long, sloping hill that lay just north of the partly destroyed Shashidan city. The remaining Pon Q’tar
members and Julia Idaeus were also in attendance. Only moments ago Vespasian had received
word that by his orders, his forces had abandoned the struggle. At Gracchus’ suggestion, those
same legionnaires now surrounded the three rulers by the hundreds of thousands, waiting to see
what would happen. Let them witness your reasons for their unexpected retreat, Gracchus had
suggested to the emperor. Not only will it justify your decision, but it will assert your ultimate
mastery of the craft for all time.
A great and terrible thing was about to occur, the stunned legionnaires had heard. The coming
wonder would mean a quick victory here, allowing them to finally push forth toward the Shashidan
gold mines. The rumor went on that the emperor himself was about to single-handedly finish
destroying this enemy city. Eager to see what might happen, the legionnaires stood in strict ranks
as they waited for their beloved emperor to act.
The night was clear and calm as the many thousands waited atop the hill. Magenta light beaming
down from the three red moons provided more than enough illumination for everyone to see the
suffering of the beleaguered city nestled in the valley below. Dawn would break in less than two
hours, and a soft breeze caressed the waiting Rustannicans. The grass was shiny with dew and
the hillside was peaceful, its tranquillity in stark contrast to the desperate scene at the bottom of
the valley.
The Shashidan city was called Kagoya. Parts of it were still ablaze, but there were fewer such
areas than earlier. With the retreat of Vespasian’s legions, the Shashidan civilians and the
katsugai mosota who had been rushed from Ryoto to help defend Kagoya had worked tirelessly to
quell the flames and to tend the wounded. Even so, the city remained engulfed in an insane
uproar.
Katsugai and civilians rushed about, trying to quell the flames and bring order to the chaos. Dead
bodies and body parts from both sides of the conflict lay everywhere, the blood from their gaping
wounds running red in the streets. Children cried, buildings still caved in here and there, and
many wounded souls wandered the city aimlessly.
Earlier this night the dwindling Shashidans had watched as hundreds more Rustannican azure
portals suddenly formed. Surely this will mean the end, they thought. But rather than see more
enemy troops pour forth from the spinning vortices, the katsugai commanders couldn’t believe
their good luck as legionnaires by the thousands abandoned the fight to enter the portals and be
gone. Hours later, not one living enemy soldier could be found in the city. We are saved, everyone
thought. We will live on to fight another day. And so, although their desperate struggles to quell the
fires and to save the wounded continued, at least they now sensed a modicum of hope.
The fools, Vespasian thought as he sat atop one of his white stallions and he looked down on the
scene. Little can they comprehend the forces that I am about to unleash.
Gracchus’ instructions to Vespasian regarding his new gifts and the various powers that they
would unleash had been awesome in their mazelike complexities, stunning Vespasian and
Persephone nearly into speechlessness. The cleric went on to say that because of the supremely
gifted nature of Vespasian’s blood, the emperor would be able to call them forth with relative ease.
The difficult part, Gracchus had warned, would be to control their ferocity once they had been
unleashed.
Through his amazing revelations, Gracchus had at least partly redeemed himself in his emperor’s
eyes. Even so, before using his new gifts, Vespasian had insisted that Julia Idaeus perform an
auspicium to foretell whether his imminent use of the craft would bring good results or bad. As
Julia expected, Gracchus embraced the idea warmly. Vespasian nodded to Julia, telling her to
begin.
As the Femiculi walked toward her white birds, she again suffered the bizarre combination of
emotions that always roiled up inside her whenever she was forced to participate in this sham of
the craft. So as to protect her identity, she must conduct the ritual flawlessly, all the while
appearing to believe in its power to help guide the empire. Yet she couldn’t help but worry for
Shashida, the land in which she now stood and truly revered. It was not unusual for the Femiculi
to perform auspiciums on the battlefield—she had done so many times. But this one would surely
be even more awful in its portent, for like the Pon Q’tar members, she too had finally been
informed of Vespasian’s special gifts. The mere thought of being a part of any ritual that might
grant good tidings to such a terrible scheme brought fear and disgust to her heart.
She knew full well that the Chikara Inkai would want her to perform her part of the auspicium
normally. They would forbid her to try to affect Gracchus’ tampering with the birds’ direction of
flight, should Gracchus do so to ensure the favorable outcome that the lead cleric needed. Such
interference would surely tell Gracchus that someone was plotting against him, perhaps causing
his sharp brown eyes to turn toward her. Above all else, her secret identity as a League of
Whispers member and her august position of Priory Femiculi must be preserved.
Even so, she felt that her refusal to expose Gracchus for the charlatan that he was somehow
made her a traitor to Shashida. Knowing that she must do nothing to prevent Gracchus from
subverting the ritual, she prepared to perform the auspicium.
The ten white sacred birds sat tethered to a golden rail. After coming to stand before the cooing
birds, Julia pointed a finger in their direction. At once the tethers binding the birds’ feet to the rail
vanished. This time, rather than wing their way home to the Rotunda after their direction of flight
had been made clear, the birds would obediently return to the golden rail. Just as she had done
many times before, Julia bowed her head.
“O sacred flame of the Vagaries, grant us the wisdom to perform this auspicium and to be guided
by its decree,” she recited. “Allow your divine magic to drive the sacred birds skyward and show
your humble craft servants which path is best. In our emperor’s name we ask for your guidance.
In your name we offer our thanks and our continued servitude.”
With that, Julia raised her arms higher. Amid a quick flurry of white wings, the birds took to the
sky.
As always, for several tense moments the birds circled overhead, giving no inkling as to their
decree. Then they gathered to fly due north for a short distance before returning to their perch. As
the birds landed one by one, from behind the protection of her veil Julia desperately blinked back
her tears.
Northward, she thought, her heart breaking. The auspiciums are good and Vespasian will surely
act. With Gracchus in attendance, was there ever any doubt?
Julia looked over to see that the lead cleric and the other Pon Q’tar members were beaming with
delight. She couldn’t know whether Gracchus had secretly altered the birds’ direction of flight, nor
did it matter. All that mattered now was that Vespasian would use his new powers for the first
time, and the entire dynamic of the War of Attrition was about to change forever.
“The time has come, my liege,” Gracchus said to Vespasian. “Unleash one of your gifts and finish
off Kagoya once and for all. Then we will take the gold fields. Soon we will walk the streets of
Ryoto as our own.”
“Do you have a suggestion as to which gift should be summoned?” Vespasian asked.
“I do,” Gracchus answered simply. The lead cleric turned to look down upon the stricken city.
“Much of Kagoya still stands,” he said. “I suggest that the same force of nature that began its
destruction be allowed to finish the task.”
Vespasian nodded. After giving Persephone a somber look, he again turned his attention toward
the beleaguered city. Following Gracchus’ training, he closed his eyes and raised his arms
skyward.
At once Vespasian saw the many elaborate banned forestallment calculations whirling in his
mind. Their computations were elegant, all-powerful. Selecting the one he wanted, he caused the
others to vanish. As the chosen spell came to life for the first time, Vespasian opened his eyes.
Soon the eager Rustannicans could not believe their eyes. The clouds in the heavens were
literally obeying Vespasian’s commands and combining into a single huge veil in the sky. As the
clouds coalesced, thunder arose, its rumblings terrible, nearly deafening. The rising wind began to
howl, and with it came bright lightning that streaked majestically across the sky. Everyone
watched in awe as the lone cloud drifted directly over Kagoya, its immense size easily reaching
from one end of the city to the other. Soon the cloud slowed, the city beneath it entirely unaware
that it was about to be wiped from the face of the earth.
Closing his eyes again, Vespasian summoned the second half of the needed spell. At once the
massive cloud began changing from milky white to a bright, raging red. Soon the red form in the
sky glowed even brighter. Heat radiated from it, the torridness rising so quickly that it could be felt
even by the Rustannican multitudes lining the hill. With another great crack of lightning the raging
form split apart, showering down its contents. As Julia watched them fall onto Kagoya, her heart
broke in two.
Vespasian’s terrible creation was raining liquid fire.
The orange-red fire fell not as flames, but as great molten gobs, like volcanic lava loosed from the
sky. It did not start at one end of Kagoya and work its way toward the other, for that might have
allowed the terrified Shashidans a chance to flee. Instead, the awful stuff fell upon the city as a
whole, sparing no part of it.
As the gathered Rustannicans watched, Vespasian’s awesome creation immediately ignited
every remaining building and flowed down each street, engulfing everyone and everything in its
path. Soon it joined forces with the fires that were already raging in the city, turning Kagoya into a
gigantic torrent of flame. When the craft’s terrible work was done, the fire vanished, leaving only
dense smoke and the smell of burning flesh rising into the air. Nothing moved within the dead,
blackened city. It seemed to everyone on the hillside that not only had Kagoya been destroyed, its
very soul had been vaporized.
His task done, Vespasian lowered his arms. So exhausted that he could barely remain atop his
stallion, he closed his eyes, drew a deep breath and gripped his saddle pommel. When he finally
opened his eyes, the sight before him was awesome, unexpected.
Every living soul atop the hill and for as far as he could see into the night was on his or her knees
before him, head bowed. Even the Pon Q’tar had never witnessed such an amazing use of the
craft and they too had taken postures of supplication before the wondrous demigod they had
created.
Vespasian ordered everyone to rise. Thunderous victory cheers soon rose into the night, and the
throngs of legionnaires banged their gladii against their shields in honor of the great emperor and
craft wielder whom it was their privilege to serve. Victory wine flowed among the joyful troops.
Wending his way through the crowd, Benedik Pryam came to stand beside Gracchus. Looking
down at the smoldering ruins of Kagoya, he smiled and handed the lead cleric a cup of wine.
“So it seems that you have finally realized your masterpiece of the craft after all,” he whispered. “I
must admit that some of the more skeptical Pon Q’tar members were starting to have their
doubts. It is fortunate for all of us that Vespasian’s impending terrors reached out to his mind no
later than they did. Otherwise we might have begun a campaign that we couldn’t finish.”
“I am as delighted as you,” Gracchus answered as he continued to grin and wave theatrically at
the triumphant emperor. “Although we take a major step toward ultimate victory this night, do not
think for one moment that the battle is won. If the Jin’Sai has reached Shashida, our real fight may
have only started. Either way, the War of Attrition is forever escalated.”
As Benedik watched the beloved emperor being joyfully pulled from his saddle and into the waiting
arms of the legionnaires who so loved him, he smiled again.
“Tell me, Gracchus,” he whispered. “Now that you have created this wonder of the craft, did you
leave the proper spells in place as we agreed? Can you in fact still control Vespasian? The Pon
Q’tar has fears along those lines as well.”
“Of course,” Gracchus answered. “After all, when one creates such a monster as this, one must
be sure that it is kept in a very strong cage.”
“And that cage remains in place?” Benedik asked.
“Yes,” Gracchus answered. “As we planned, his terrors were not in fact vanquished after the use
of his first banned forestallment. Instead, they still lurk in his subconscious. But unlike before, they
will no longer spring up of their own choosing. Should our creation become rebellious, I will order
the terrors to revisit him. Only then will I tell him how and why.”
Turning to Benedik, Gracchus smiled.
“So you see, my friend, all is as it should be,” the lead cleric said. “Soon the Shashidan gold will
be traveling home to Ellistium and we will be dining in the fabled gardens of the Kyuden Shimin.”
Smiling broadly, the two clerics linked arms and drank heartily of the rich victory wine.

CHAPTER XLIV
“JUST HOURS AGO, JULIA IDAEUS AGAIN SECRETLY COMMUNED with us,” Mashiro said
sadly. “She was lucky to do so without detection, for it is a dangerous thing to accomplish while
traveling with Vespasian’s armies. I’m sorry to report that her news is grave.” Before continuing,
Mashiro paused and he looked down at his hands.
“Kagoya has been totally destroyed,” he announced. “It was not a large city, but it was a culturally
important one. Worse, it was the last bastion between Vespasian and our gold mines. Julia
watched the carnage as every Kagoyan civilian and every katsugai mosota posted to its defense
was killed. Vespasian used one of his banned gifts to rain liquid fire down onto the city. After more
than one hundred and fifty centuries, the Rustannicans have finally violated the Borderlands
Treaty. What we have long feared has come to pass, and this war’s deadly ferocity has been
forever heightened.”
Tristan looked at Mashiro as the Chikara Inkai elder sadly wiped away tears. Although he and his
fellow pilgrims were new to Shashida, they felt the pain as sharply as if a Eutracian city had been
destroyed. For several long moments the Inkai meeting chamber went silent.
It was the morning of the Eutracians’ second full day in Shashida. Tristan, Wigg, Jessamay, and
Tyranny had been asked to participate in a hastily called meeting of the Chikara Inkai. Tristan had
dined with them the previous night, giving them a chance to brief him. All the Eutracians, the Black
Ships, and the Minions of Day and Night had arrived safely, Wigg had said. As Tristan might have
guessed, the Minion warriors elected to live aboard the ships rather than take up residence in the
elegant Kyuden Shimin, or “People’s Palace.” Everyone else had been housed in the palace’s
visitors’ wing.
Mashiro had ordered that cradles be quickly built to hold the vessels. They were much like those
that the Minions had constructed in Eutracia, Wigg said, but they also showed the stylistic
elegance that was common to Shashida. The great ships and their cradles were stationed on the
manicured inner grounds of the Kyuden Shimin.
Tristan had retired early last night and he awoke refreshed. After bathing, he walked to his
wardrobe. Hoshi had seen to it that his Eutracian vest, breeches, and knee boots had been
cleaned and returned. Tristan had never seen his Eutracian clothes so well laundered, and he
was sorely tempted to wear them. The breeches were spotless, and the leather vest and boots
had been cleaned and shined to a high gloss.
He finally selected a dark blue Shashidan robe. He took up a pair of sandals and socks from the
dozens that sat side by side on the spotless wardrobe floor. He then strapped his dreggan and
throwing knives into place behind his right shoulder.
He was about to depart his chambers when Wigg, Tyranny, and Jessamay appeared to tell him
that the Chikara Inkai urgently requested their presence. Like Tristan, they were dressed in
Shashidan garb. Leaving Tristan’s rooms, they hurried to the meeting chamber. That had been
only moments ago, and as he again gazed into Mashiro’s ancient eyes, he knew that the next few
hours would shape Shashida’s future for centuries to come.
“So your assumptions were right,” Wigg said to Mashiro. “Banned forestallments have in fact
been lurking in Vespasian’s blood.”
Mashiro nodded. “Yes,” he answered. “And at long last he has chosen to use them. We cannot
say why this has not occurred before now, because Julia is not privy to that information. But one
thing remains crystal clear. Vespasian’s next goal will be to secure our gold deposits. If he takes
and holds the area, he might then lay waste to the lower reaches of Shashida and then finally to
the nation as a whole.”
“There is something about Rustannica’s violation of the Borderlands Treaty that confuses me,”
Wigg said. “Each time the Borderlands are summoned by the Pon Q’tar, their environment is
made toxic, so as to kill anyone trapped there. It would seem that the only way to do that would be
to use one or more of the banned forestallments. And if that’s true, then the Pon Q’tar has already
violated the Borderlands Treaty untold times.”
“Given your limited understanding of the treaty, that would be true,” Kaemon said. “When the
treaty was ratified, it included a provision saying that because the Borderlands are Rustannican
territory, the Pon Q’tar is free to use the banned spells there—but only there. We objected, of
course, but the Rustannicans remained firm. In the end we were forced to grant the concession
or there would have been no treaty at all.”
“If Vespasian’s gifts are as powerful as you suspect, how does the Pon Q’tar hope to control
him?” Tristan asked.
“They don’t need to control him,” Hoshi answered. “They only need to unleash him.”
“But Shashida is vast,” Tristan said. “It seems impossible that even Vespasian’s gifts could
destroy the entire nation.”
“We tend to agree,” Midori replied from across the table, “but we cannot be sure. If he alone can
crush one major objective after another, his legions will be free to leave his side and then attack
lesser targets at will. Julia reported that Vespasian destroyed all of Kagoya in less than one hour!
Because of this, he might decide that only a few of his legions need accompany him from here
on. He could then delegate command of the others to Lucius Marius, his First Tribune and closest
friend. Lucius’ task would be to overwhelm the smaller targets traditionally while Vespasian uses
his new gifts to destroy the larger ones. In this way, the Rustannican war machine could cover
great expanses of Shashida quickly and spread our forces thin.”
After thinking for a moment, Tristan looked at Mashiro. “Do the Rustannicans know that I am
here?” he asked.
Mashiro sighed. “Julia tells us that they worry about your arrival, but that they cannot confirm it.
Because you escaped Khristos at the edge of the Azure Sea, they of course know that you were
trying to come here. They are not fools and they will take your possible arrival into their planning.
Only one thing remains certain, Jin’Sai. If Shashida is to be saved, we must grant you our
versions of the banned forestallments soon—today, if you will permit it. During yesterday’s
emergency session, our governing body ratified our request to do so, and to allow you to then
confront Vespasian. Once the spells have been imbued into your blood, you and our armies will
be rushed by azure portals to meet him head-on. We humbly ask your forgiveness for throwing
you into the fray so abruptly, but the hour is late and there is no other choice. Because of
Vespasian’s far superior training in the craft, it is doubtful that you can defeat him outright. But if
you can counter his ability to employ the banned forestallments with your own, he might halt his
advance and order his legions home. We Shashidans would view Vespasian’s retreat as a
victory.”
“But I know nothing about your military and your tactics,” Tristan countered, “not to mention my
complete lack of familiarity with Vespasian’s forces. How can I be expected to lead Shashida
against an enemy about whom I know so little?”
“By not leading her,” Renjiro answered. “Forgive me, Jin’Sai, but although you have commanded
your Minions to victory many times, things are vastly different here. You are right—you cannot be
expected to lead forces about which you know little or nothing. Therefore, Hoshi and I will lead
them. You will be with us, providing the one weapon that we cannot. When suddenly confronted
by your gifts, Vespasian might put a stop this madness and return home. As we speak, hundreds
of Shashidan cohorts are being sent by azure portal to a staging area south of where our gold
deposits lay. The other Chikara Inkai members will remain here. We will inform them of events by
way of mental communion.”
Tristan nodded. “I will do so gladly,” he answered. “But I have some requests of you.”
“What are they?” Hoshi asked.
“I want to take my Minions into battle with me and I want complete control over them,” he said. “I
know that you find them crude when compared to your katsugai mosota and perhaps they are.
But my Minions are gifted and ruthless killers, and their advantage of flight will be useful.
Vespasian might not be expecting that.”
To Tristan’s surprise, Hoshi smiled. “Truth be told, we were about to suggest that very thing,” she
replied. “What is your other request?”
“I want my Black Ships to participate in the fight and Tyranny to command them,” Tristan said.
“Your portals can easily accommodate them. I, my Minions, and my fellow Conclave members
will ride the Black Ships to the battle site. Once there, I will gladly follow your orders.”
Mashiro nodded, and Tristan turned to look at Wigg, Jessamay, and Tyranny. “What say you all?”
he asked. “Will you come with us?”
Despite the recent loss of Abbey, Wigg managed a short smile. “I can answer for everyone,” he
replied. “You were born to take part in this struggle. It will be an honor to serve by your side.”
After nodding at Wigg, Tristan looked back at Mashiro. “Then it’s settled,” he said. “When will I be
granted the banned forestallments?”
“Within hours,” Mashiro answered. “But first there is another concern that deserves our attention.
I’m sure it has not escaped your mind.”
Tristan nodded again. “Shailiha,” he said softly. “I’m mad to know her condition and to help her
defeat the Viper Lord.”
“To those ends, we have a gift for you,” Kaemon said. “Since the moment you arrived in
Shashida, our best craft researchers have been diligently working to perfect some needed spells.
We believe that you will find them interesting.”
“What spells are these?” Wigg asked.
“You will see soon enough,” Mashiro answered. The Inkai elder turned to look at Tristan.
“Activate your medallion,” Mashiro told him.

“IS THERE STILL NO NEWS OF KHRISTOS?” SHAILIHA ASKED.
“No, Your Highness,” Traax answered. “Night Witch patrols continue to scan Eutracia’s rivers
from the air, but there has been no sign of him or his servants. Mashiro suspects that as long as
the enemy remains submerged, Failee’s original spell will provide them with sustenance. If that is
true, they have no need to surface until they wish to attack. They lurked beneath the water for
three centuries before emerging to take the First Mistress’s revenge. Staying submerged for mere
days at a time must be a comparatively simple feat.”
The hour was late and Shailiha was tired. Even so, she demanded that her Conclave members
meet again to discuss the ongoing situation. This would be the last briefing of the day, and for that
she was glad.
Khristos’ ability to raze Tammerland and to set fire to one of the Black Ships and nearly steal the
other had enraged every Conclave member. The loss of the Illendium had been disastrous, and
many days would pass before the Cavalon would again be airworthy. With her two Black Ships
unavailable and yet more Minions dead, Shailiha’s ability to fight Khristos had been severely
compromised.
Moreover, her physical condition still plagued her. Her facial skin was healing, but her body ached
badly from the effects of the viper venom, causing her to move like a woman twice her age. The
vision in her left eye had improved slightly, but not enough to persuade her that it would ever
return to normal. It will take time, Mashiro had told Faegan, and she clung to that belief. Of
necessity she still wore the black eye patch, and by now everyone in the palace had grown
accustomed to its presence. At least there is that, she thought.
Faegan, Traax, Aeolus, and Adrian sat with her at the mahogany table in the Conclave meeting
room, deep in the Redoubt. It was not the first time that the remaining members had gathered
since their friends had left for Shashida. Even so, the empty chairs still lent the room a desolate
feel, and the chair that had once been Abbey’s seemed the most forlorn of all.
Sighing, Faegan placed his forearms on the highly polished table. “We can do little but wait,
Princess,” he said. “We should continue to send out Night Witch patrols, but because our
enemies can hide in the rivers, the likelihood of finding them before they again emerge is not
great.”
Sadly, Shailiha was forced to agree. In Tristan’s absence she ruled Eutracia, but her inability to
act was frustrating. She knew that if Tristan were still there, he would be equally stymied, and the
advice being offered to him would be identical. Unlike her twin brother, the princess more carefully
considered her options before acting. But because those options were so few, she was finding it
increasingly difficult to stifle the same kind of impetuousness that characterized the Jin’Sai.
Just then Faegan gave her a strange look, and she realized that he was staring not at her face,
but at the gold medallion hanging around her neck. She looked down to see that it was glowing.
Tristan! she thought. He’s reaching out to me from Shashida.
Rather than turn over the medallion, Shailiha hesitated. Tristan and the other Conclave members
had yet to see her since she was injured. As at the moment when Morganna first saw her injured
face, she worried about how they would react—especially her brother. The last thing she wanted
from them was their pity. As the medallion continued to glow, she looked into Faegan’s eyes.
The crippled wizard reached out to pat her hand.
“He’s your brother,” he said. “He worries for you, as they all do. It is best that you put this behind
you.”
Shailiha nodded, then turned over the medallion so that everyone around the table might see into
it. Her first viewing of the Inkai meeting room and the many people there took her breath away.

WHEN TRISTAN SAW HIS SISTER, HE FELT HIS HEART BREAK. He knew that she had been
injured, but seeing her that way greatly disturbed him just the same. He knew that there was no
use in speaking to her, so he tried to give his best smile of support.
“Has contact been established?” Mashiro asked.
“Yes,” Tristan answered.
“Please remove the medallion and place it on the meeting table,” the Inkai elder said.
Tristan gave Mashiro a questioning look. “It was my understanding that the medallion must be
worn by one of endowed blood to do its work,” he said.
Mashiro smiled. “That is no longer altogether true,” he said.
Tristan removed the medallion and placed it face up on the table. At once Mashiro caused the
medallion to levitate about two feet above the table. Then the gold disc and its chain started to
spin. Faster and faster they went until they became only a blur, then disappeared altogether.
In their place appeared another representation of what Tristan had seen in the medallion, but this
time the scene was far larger. The images of the people sitting at the Redoubt table had become
life-sized. Amazed, Tristan turned to gape at Mashiro.
“How did you do this?” he breathed.
“We altered the spells that Miriam cast over your medallions before she died,” he answered. “It
took our craft researchers some doing, I can assure you.”
Tristan looked back at the scene floating before his eyes. The new image was about two yards
broad by one yard high. It was so clear and sharp that Tristan felt he was there in the Redoubt
and could actually reach out and touch his sister’s ravaged face. As he looked closer, he saw that
the far wider scope of the new image allowed him to see everyone in the Redoubt chamber at
once. Every Conclave member’s face wore an equally amazed expression. Because the new
image floated above the Inkai meeting table, everyone could see it easily.
“Has their view of us been similarly changed?” Tristan asked.
“Yes,” Mashiro answered. “This was made possible because Shailiha’s medallion is an exact
duplicate of yours, created by the craft while she was imprisoned by the Coven of Sorceresses.
Because of its origins, an enchanted connection has always existed between them. Miriam simply
brought it to life, then we enhanced it. Now when either of you calls the needed spell, your
medallions will create enlarged views, and they will not have to leave your bodies to do so.”
Still amazed, Tristan looked over at Mashiro. “I wish to communicate with her,” he said, “but I will
need paper and ink to do so. May I be given some?”
Mashiro shook his head. “You won’t need them,” he said.
Wigg’s eyes narrowed and he leaned over the tabletop. “Do you mean to say—”
“That’s exactly what I mean,” Mashiro answered.
Before Wigg could reply, Mashiro closed his eyes and called the craft. At once the image floating
over the table glowed brighter, then blurred for several moments. When the scene came back into
focus, Tristan heard an eerily familiar sound that did not originate from the Inkai meeting
chamber. He soon realized that it was the crackling of the burning logs in the Redoubt fireplace,
far on the other side of the world. Mouth agape, he sat back in his chair.
“I beg the Afterlife!” he breathed. “I can hear them!”
Mashiro nodded. “That’s right, Jin’Sai,” he said, “and they can hear us. Please accept these
augmentations to your and your sister’s medallions as humble gifts from the Chikara Inkai.”
When she unexpectedly heard her brother’s voice, Shailiha reacted with a start. Faegan, Aeolus,
Traax, and Adrian seemed similarly stunned.
“Tristan…?” Shailiha said.
“I’m here,” he answered. “The Chikara Inkai has augmented our medallions so that we may now
also hear each other. I find the effect as amazing as you do.”
Pausing for a moment, Tristan looked sadly into his sister’s eyes. “Are you all right?” he asked
quietly.
At first Shailiha didn’t answer. After pausing for a moment she bravely lifted her eye patch for all to
see, then she put it back in place. A quick rush of air left Tristan’s lungs, but he did his best to
stifle his shock.
“My vision is a bit better,” Shailiha answered. “On behalf of all of us, I wish to offer our
condolences on the death of Abbey. We all miss her.”
Shailiha then cast her handicapped gaze about the Inkai chamber and looked at each of the
members in turn. “Which of you is Mashiro?” she asked.
Mashiro stood and bowed. “My apologies, Princess,” he said. “I should have made the needed
introductions sooner. Please allow me to correct my mistake.”
Mashiro asked the Inkai members to stand one by one. As they did, he introduced them to the
Conclave members watching from so far away. When he finished, Shailiha did the same for her
followers. Because of the sharpness of the scene and the amazing clarity of the Conclave
members’ voices, it was almost as if everyone were seated at one great table.
For the next hour the two groups exchanged information on their respective situations. Shailiha
informed the Inkai that there had been no sightings of the Viper Lord or his followers but that Night
Witch patrols continued to search them out. She then explained that the Cavalon was under
repair, but it would be many days before she would again be airworthy. Traax then provided the
Jin’Sai with an updated casualty report.
When Traax finished, Mashiro informed the Eutracian Conclave of everything that he had told
Tristan and his fellow travelers during their earlier meetings. He then went on to explain
Vespasian’s recent violation of the Borderlands Treaty and the Inkai’s plan to imbue Tristan’s
blood with their versions of the banned forestallments. He also described in detail the Inkai’s wish
that one day everyone’s blood signature might be altered to the vertical and that a new, unified
nation might be born that was devoid of forestallments and dedicated to the ideal of free will. The
Conclave members sat in stunned silence, absorbing every word. When Mashiro finished, many
quiet moments passed as those in Eutracia considered the astounding news.
His expression stern, Faegan leaned across the Conclave meeting table and looked straight into
Wigg’s eyes.
“Tell me, First Wizard,” he asked. “Assuming that the lands west of the Tolenkas can ever again
be united, do you agree that all blood signatures should be altered to the vertical and that the
Tome and the two Scrolls of the Ancients should be destroyed?”
“I do,” Wigg answered. “The Shashidans are right to feel this way. But before such awesome
changes can happen, Rustannica must be defeated for good. Only then can the Inkai turn their
attention to the betterment of the craft for the sake of all mankind.”
Faegan sat in silence for some time as he considered Wigg’s words. “Despite how radical the
concept seems, I must say that I agree,” he answered. “I envy your being there, old friend. I can
only imagine the wonders that you have seen and those that still await you. Abbey would have
been proud.”
Wigg’s face darkened for a moment. “Thank you,” he said simply.
“Now then,” Mashiro said. “I must ask the Conclave whether Failee’s grimoire is available.”
“It is,” Aeolus answered. He rose from his chair to walk across the Redoubt meeting chamber to
where the red leather-bound book sat atop a pedestal. Bringing it back, he placed it on the table.
“Why do you wish to see the late First Mistress’s grimoire?” he asked. “Surely there can be
nothing in it that supersedes your knowledge of the craft.”
“Although that is probably true, you must never forget how brilliant Failee was, or how limitless
were the depths of her distrust,” Mashiro answered. “Like the Pon Q’tar, she always constructed a
way of destroying her own creations should the need arise.”
“I don’t understand,” Faegan protested. “Aside from the Vigors, what would she have wished to
destroy?”
“Not what, but whom,” Renjiro answered.
Faegan’s face suddenly came alight with understanding. “You’re talking about Khristos, aren’t
you?” he asked. “If for some reason he ever turned on her, he and his Blood Vipers would have
presented a deadly threat to her rule—especially while she was still struggling to win the
Sorceresses’ War.”
“Correct,” Midori said. “We suggest that you scour her grimoire for any references to Khristos. If
the First Mistress devised a secret way to destroy him, her grimoire is where she probably hid it.”
“We have already done so,” Shailiha said. “Aside from a few entries describing her overall plan for
Khristos, nothing more is said about him.”
“Nothing that you can see,” Mashiro said to Shailiha. “It’s what you can’t see that interests us.”
“What are you talking about?” the princess asked.
Mashiro turned to look at Wigg. “Correct me if I’m wrong, First Wizard,” he said. “Isn’t it true that
during the Sorceresses’ War, the Coven used spells to camouflage secret documents?”
“We always suspected as much,” Wigg answered. “If they did, they took the knowledge to their
graves. Despite the combined efforts of the late Directorate of Wizards, we were never able to
unravel the secret. I have long suspected that hidden writings lay in her grimoire, but there is no
way to know for sure.”
“Until now, perhaps,” Mashiro said. He turned back toward the hovering image and looked at
Faegan. “Wigg tells us that he left some of the subtle matter behind in Eutracia. Do you still have
it?”
“Yes,” Faegan answered.
“Would you be kind enough to have it brought to your meeting chamber?” he asked. “You will have
need of it.”
Faegan nodded and asked Traax to fetch it from its resting place in the Redoubt Archives. Soon
Traax returned with a small glass flask filled with subtle matter, not unlike the one that Wigg had
brought to Shashida. Taking the flask from Traax, Faegan placed it on the table alongside the
grimoire.
“Now, then,” Mashiro said to Faegan. “Using your gift of Consummate Recollection, please open
the grimoire to the section that makes mention of Khristos.”
Faegan closed his eyes and called the craft. Soon the grimoire opened of its own accord, and its
pages began turning madly. After a few moments they stopped.
“It is done,” Faegan said.
“Good,” Mashiro said. “Now if you would be so kind as to sprinkle a small bit of the subtle matter
onto the pages.”
Faegan did so, but nothing happened. He said as much to Mashiro.
“Do not be dismayed,” Mashiro said. “Subtle matter has many uses, but few of them can be
achieved without an accompanying spell. If you would, please repeat the Shashidan incantation
that I am about to recite. You will find it complex, so I suggest that you first call on your
Consummate Recollection to ensure that you repeat my words perfectly. Otherwise you might
find the results distressing, to say the least. But if you recite it correctly and our suspicions about
Failee are true, the results might be intriguing.”
“Very well,” Faegan answered. “I am ready.”
Mashiro enunciated a long incantation in his native Shashidan. As Tristan listened, he found the
language far more beautiful and elegant than his native dialect. Throughout Mashiro’s incantation,
Tristan recognized but one word: “Khristos.”
When Mashiro finished, Faegan closed his eyes. Calling on his special gift, he carefully repeated
the incantation word for word. As he finished, all eyes turned toward Failee’s grimoire.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then the grimoire started to glow with the same white light that
had emanated from the Tome and the two Scrolls of the Ancients when the subtle matter
decoded them in the Archives. Letters, numbers, and craft symbols lifted from the pages to hover
above the Conclave meeting table. Then the grimoire pages started flurrying by again, and yet
more marks went flying off the pages. Soon the pages stopped turning, and Failee’s writings
ceased lifting from the pages.
Everyone watched as the thousands of glowing characters swirled about to form lines. The lines
then formed a text many paragraphs long incorporating two involved spell formulas. As Faegan
read the glowing text, his mouth fell open.
“I beg the Afterlife!” he exclaimed. “You were right.”
Both chambers went silent as everyone read the glowing text. It soon became clear that it was a
craft treatise that had been written by Failee and described in detail how to deal with Khristos and
his servants should they ever become a threat to her. Filled with awe, Tristan let go a deep breath
and sat back in his chair.
“Well done, Faegan, and worthy of an Inkai,” Mashiro said to the crippled wizard. “This should
greatly aid you in your struggle.”
“Indeed,” Shailiha answered. “I thank you.”
Remembering the other reason he had wanted to contact his sister, Tristan again looked at her.
The time had come, and there could be no denying it.
“Now that you have the needed information from Failee’s grimoire, there is one thing left to say,”
Tristan told her. “It is important, and you must heed my advice well.”
“What is it?” Shailiha asked.
“It is unlikely that I will ever return to Eutracia,” he said. “Because of that, it is time for you to
become Queen. I fully realize that this is a burden that you never thought you’d have to shoulder,
but in the name of our late parents, you must. Our country needs a formal ruler.”
Before the princess could answer, Aeolus reached out and took one of her hands into his.
“The Jin’Sai is right,” he said. “We must accept the fact that although we can communicate with
one another, the Conclave of the Vigors is probably forever divided, and our struggles have
become separate and distinct. You are the reigning Jin’Saiou and rightful heir to the throne. It is
only right that you take power.”
Taking a deep breath, Shailiha looked at her brother. Although she could see and hear him as if he
were sitting by her side, she missed him badly. She missed his impetuousness, his strength, his
laughter, even his moodiness. But she also knew that he might never actually be with her again,
and because of that, he was right. It was time for her to shoulder her responsibility.
“I accept,” she said to everyone. “And I thank you for your trust in me. But I think it only right that I
not succeed to the throne until our struggle with the Viper Lord is finished. We must focus all of
our attention on the calamity at hand. This is no time to prepare for a coronation.”
Wigg smiled broadly at her. “Spoken like a true queen,” he said. “Your parents would be proud.”
Mashiro reached out and touched Tristan on one arm. “With all due respect, Jin’Sai, we must end
this viewing,” he proposed. “Both the Conclave and the Inkai have urgent matters to attend to, and
time is of the essence.”
Although Tristan did not want to see his sister go, he knew that the Inkai elder was right. Looking
back into Shailiha’s eyes, he told her so.
“I agree, brother,” she said. “Please stay safe, and may your coming battle see a victory for the
Vigors.”
“And yours,” Tristan said.
With that, Mashiro dismantled the spell, and the image vanished.
After taking the medallion into his hand, Tristan held it thoughtfully for several moments before
again placing its chain around his neck.
“Now, then,” Mashiro said soberly. “It is time.”
Tristan and the others knew full well what Mashiro meant. The Inkai elder would now imbue
Tristan’s blood with Shashida’s versions of the banned forestallments and the language fluency
forestallments. Each time before, the process had been excruciating and this time would likely be
worse. Even so, there was no other choice, no going back.
“I understand,” Tristan said. “Where shall it be done?”
“The venue is immaterial,” Mashiro answered. “This meeting chamber is as good a place as any.
The process will take some time and you must remain strong. If you survive the ordeal, you and
Vespasian will be the two most powerful mystics in the world. You will not be as well trained in the
craft as he, but your gifts of manipulating nature will be equally strong. Aside from Vespasian’s
ability to rain fire as described by Julia, we cannot know the natures of his other banned gifts, or
how many he possesses. But the Pon Q’tar will not know that of yours, either. Are you still sure
that you wish to do this thing?”
“Yes,” Tristan answered simply. “It has to be.”
“Very well,” Mashiro replied. “Because of the exquisite pain that you will suffer, Hoshi will place a
warp about you to keep you from thrashing. We apologize for such crudeness, but it is needed to
keep you from harming yourself.”
Mashiro nodded at Hoshi. She in turn looked at Tristan with sad eyes.
“Forgive me,” she said quietly.
At once Tristan felt himself engulfed in a warp the likes of which he had never experienced.
Although it was not painful, his immobilization was perfect, unrelenting. The only movements
allowed him were his quickening breath and the blinking of his eyes. Nervous perspiration started
on his brow in anticipation of the horror to come.
Out of respect, Mashiro cast a sad look at Wigg, the man who had for so long been Tristan’s best
friend and mentor. Although he too was saddened by what was about to happen, the First Wizard
knew that there was no other choice if Shashida and the Vigors were to survive Vespasian’s
onslaught. Closing his eyes, he gave Mashiro a reluctant nod.
At once a terrible fire poured through Tristan’s bloodstream. He desperately needed to move, to
scream, to cry out and beg that it stop. But he couldn’t. He could only endure it. On and on the
pain went, coursing through his system like a raging river. Sweat poured into his eyes, his heart
raced, his soul shrieked in torment. As the process continued unabated, some were forced to turn
their heads, while others brushed away tears that only kept returning.
In the end, the torturous process would take five full hours.

CHAPTER XLV

TWO DAYS AFTER DESTROYING THE CITY OF KAGOYA, Vespasian triumphantly stood in the
Shashidan valley through which ran the mighty Alarik River. It was midday, the weather clear and
bright. As he looked out across the amazing scene, the emperor couldn’t have been more
pleased.
His destruction of Kagoya had been total. Despite the lengthy warnings that he had received from
Gracchus, even he had been astonished by his new gifts. As Gracchus said, choosing a
particular forestallment and then summoning its power had been simple things. Controlling it as it
went about its awful work and then causing it to vanish on command had been far more difficult,
however. With experience, your ability to control your new gifts will only grow, Gracchus had told
him. Like some highly addictive drug, Vespasian’s new gifts beckoned tantalizingly, and he
hungered to taste them again. With his day terrors finally gone and the banned forestallments
waiting to be summoned, he had never felt so alive.
On seeing their emperor destroy Kagoya, his legionnaires had acquired an even greater
reverence for him. They now considered Vespasian a demigod, his awesome command of the
craft unlimited in its scope and fury. The final victory over Kagoya had fully redeemed the
scheming lead cleric in the emperor’s eyes, and everyone believed that the total dominance of the
Vagaries would not be long in coming.
Aside from his supply lines that stretched ever northward, Vespasian’s entire war machine had
been moved to this valley by way of hundreds of azure portals. The Shashidan resistance had
been stronger here, and many legionnaires had died.
Even so, the campaign had progressed too easily, Vespasian thought. His massive war
machine’s string of successes continued to worry him and his advisors. It was almost as if the
Shashidans wanted them to succeed, but the Rustannicans were at a complete loss as to why
this might be the case. What was done was done, Vespasian realized, and there would be no
turning back until their mission was complete. To stop the campaign now that the gold deposits
had been taken would be absurd, even though the newly empowered warlord and every advisor in
his service feared that a Shashidan trap was in the making. They had come for the gold, and they
would stay in this place and take it.
Trying to cast off his concerns, Vespasian turned to admire the lush, beautiful valley and the
majestic river that flowed through it. This area was one of the most awe-inspiring that he had ever
seen, not to mention the richest. In the Rustannican dialect it was called Vallesis Majestatis, or the
Valley of Majesty. The Shashidans called it Tani Kinkiro, the Valley of Gold. Vespasian found both
names apt.
Running due north and south for more than one hundred leagues, at the valley’s heart laid the
mighty Alarik River, fed by its seemingly endless branches. Legend said that hundreds of
centuries were needed for the river to carve its way south through the imposing granite peaks and
to divide them into two separate mountain ranges. On leaving the valley the river flowed south
toward the broad, flat plains that would later give rise to Ryoto, the capital of Shashida.
The opposing mountainsides rose leagues into the air, their tops so high that they lay perpetually
covered with snow and ice. The craggy slopes had long ago become laden with pine trees, their
green needles casting a clean scent into the air. Lush pastures and knolls lay on either side of the
Alarik, their gentle swells extending from the riverbanks to where the mountainsides began rising
toward the sky. Fish filled the Alarik and its many branches, and wildlife of every kind flourished
amid the serene protection granted by the opposing mountain ranges.
To everyone’s surprise, the phrase “Shashidan gold mines” had been a misnomer. On reaching
the Vallesis Majestatis, Vespasian and his forces were stunned to find that there were in fact no
“mines” at all. Instead, the gold lay all about for the taking, the earth humbly offering up her
treasures without demanding a great struggle of any kind.
Gold nuggets—the smallest among them easily the size of man’s hand—could be seen lying atop
the Alarik River bed, their bright yellow color waving temptingly up through the rushing water. More
gold could be found in countless veins that reached up the mountainsides, their vast wealth easily
dislodged with the craft to tumble down the hillsides and land literally at the legionnaires’ feet. The
pickings were easy, and seemed too good to be true. No matter from what source the gold came,
more was found beneath it.
As best the Rustannicans could tell, these amazing deposits abounded for the entire length of the
valley. Vespasian could easily understand why guarding this place was so difficult for the
Shashidans. Because the valley was so huge, protecting it would require the presence of so
many katsugai mosota that few would be left to fight the war. And because the gold fields lay so
deep in Shashidan territory, an attack on them was highly unexpected. Even so, there had been
many katsugai mosota here. Killing them had come at a cost, but not so great as to stop
Vespasian’s legions from ruling the day.
After dispatching the enemy, Vespasian’s legions set to work harvesting the golden bounty that so
temptingly presented itself. As an incentive to speed the task, he issued a decree that every
legionnaire who survived and returned home at the end of the campaign would share in the
plunder.
Hundreds of thousands of men toiled at picking up the gold, their sweating, bent backs stretching
away toward each end of the valley as far as the eye could see. War tents by the thousands
stood along the riverbank, forming an impromptu city made of canvas. The southerly flowing Alarik
ran particularly fast through the valley, making Vespasian’s planned use of his barges to ferry the
gold upstream largely unworkable. Even so, many tons of gold had already been sent home to
Ellistium by way of the azure portals, and more was leaving Shashida by the minute.
Despite this place’s obvious temptations, a great danger lay here, and Vespasian knew it. The
very idea of his army being enclosed in a valley was a military nightmare. If the Shashidans
closed off both ends of the Vallesis Majestatis, his forces’ only avenue of escape would be the
azure portals, which in turn would mean abandoning the gold fields. Unless his trapped legions
escaped by portal, the barbaric katsugai mosota would come charging down the valley from both
ends, trapping Vespasian’s legions in the middle. In hopes of preventing an attack inside the
valley, he had sent three legions to guard each valley entrance. As his worries taunted him,
Vespasian was soon reminded of a famous military tenet. No man fights so hard as he who
defends his homeland, he remembered. If and when the katsugai arrived in force, they would fight
very hard indeed.
Vespasian turned to see Lucius and Persephone approaching. The First Tribune held a wax
diptych in one hand. Smiling broadly, he removed his helmet and placed it under one arm.
Persephone came to her husband’s side and looped one arm though his.
“It goes amazingly well, my liege,” Lucius said, handing the diptych to Vespasian.
“Is this the latest count?” the emperor asked.
Lucius nodded. “Even so, it grows by the moment! The gold deposits are staggering in their
abundance! It seems that no matter how much we take, more always lies beneath, ripe for the
picking!”
Vespasian opened the diptych and he ran his eyes down the single page. As expected, the report
was in Gracchus’ handwriting. Even the emperor was stunned by what it said.
The amount of gold already sent home to Ellistium was greater than the largest amount that had
ever existed in her treasury. At this rate, in mere days the empire’s coffers would hold a nearly
incomprehensible amount. Vespasian smiled as he realized that the Rustannican imperial mint
would be stamping new coins for decades or longer, and that each coin would bear his likeness.
Despite the encouraging tally, as Vespasian looked around the valley again his expression
saddened. Unable to understand why, Persephone gave her husband a questioning look.
“What troubles you, my love?” she asked. “In only a few more days we will have sent more gold
home than we could ever have imagined! Who knew that it would be so easily harvested? Your
campaign is a towering success!”
“Perhaps,” he answered. “Even so, our problems have not ended.” Vespasian shook his head.
“It’s this place, Persephone,” he said quietly. “We must tarry here because the gold lies here. But
as a military stronghold, this valley is a nightmare. We must soon decide how long to stay and
loot the fields, because every moment that passes brings us that much closer to engaging the
Shashidans. If they somehow close off both ends of the valley—”
“A necessary gamble, my liege,” Lucius said. “We have legions posted at both the northern and
southern valley entrances. At the first sign of the Shashidans, our forces will engage them, and
they will personally inform us by way of one of the azure portals. You may put your entire trust in
them. They have never failed us.”
“I know, I know,” Vespasian answered, rubbing his brow. His heart was filled with a strange blend
of euphoria and impending doom, and the conflicting emotions showed on his face. “It’s not a
matter of whether the Shashidans come, but when. They’ll divide their forces, then try to seal off
both ends of the valley, I’m sure of it.”
“How can you be so certain?” Persephone asked.
“Because that’s what I would do,” Vespasian answered grimly. “A schoolchild could grasp its
effectiveness! But there’s more to my worries. Being imprisoned between these imposing peaks
makes me wonder whether our campaign plan should be changed.”
“To what end?” Lucius asked.
“Persephone said it best,” Vespasian answered. “Because we can simply pluck the gold from
nature as one might harvest fruit from a tree, our work proceeds exceedingly fast. Soon we will
have sent more gold home to Ellistium than we ever dreamed possible. Perhaps we should then
abandon this valley and move on, for it is too far away from home for us to hold as conquered
territory. I long for the maneuvering room that only being away from these imposing peaks can
afford. Here in this valley we toil like rats in a trap.”
“There is little else that we can do for now,” Lucius said. “I suggest that we review the process for
sending the gold home. More than anything else, it will remind us why we ventured into this
barbaric land.”
Letting go a short smile, Vespasian nodded. “Very well,” he said to Lucius. “Lead on.”
The trio sauntered along the Alarik toward one of the many staging areas where the gold was
being weighed and the sums tallied before being shipped home. Many such stations lay up and
down the length of the valley. Despite the hundreds of thousands of eager legionnaires working
away, Vespasian knew that even if his forces toiled here for months, they couldn’t harvest a
fraction of the massive Shashidan deposits. Although their take would be vast, in a strange way
that knowledge also disheartened him.
In the end, what will we have accomplished? he wondered as he walked. No matter how much
gold his legions took from this place, the amount would be finite. He could imagine the imperial
coffers back in Ellistium full to overflowing as never before. But for how long would the plunder
last?
Unless he struck Shashida a fatal blow here and now, not even the Pon Q’tar could predict how
long the War of Attrition might continue. Given the great wealth of this valley, Shashida might be
able to finance her war needs endlessly. Soldiers and weapons of war were replaceable, up to a
point. But because Rustannica’s indigenous gold deposits were nearing depletion, Rustannica
could again become a victim of her own successes, and even the stolen gold reserves would one
day be used up.
Taking Ryoto was the key, he knew. If he could kill the members of the Chikara Inkai and the
Kokkai Kokumen, the total defeat of Shashida would soon follow. But how much gold should be
harvested before he ordered this valley abandoned? And when he did, in what direction should he
send his legions—homeward to safety, or onward toward Ryoto and an uncertain future?
At first his goal had been only to send as much gold as possible to Ellistium, then retreat
homeward to fight this war another day and with vastly renewed strength. But no Rustannican
force in history had advanced this close to Ryoto. Taking the Shashidan capital was so tempting
that he knew he must strategize only with his head, not his heart. Then Vespasian smiled wryly as
he remembered that being on campaign was always a far different and far uglier thing than was
proposing it to the Suffragat in the luxurious surroundings of the Aedifficium.
Were his legions’ recent successes due to luck, he wondered, or were the Shashidans cleverly
drawing him in? Now that his new gifts had been realized and Ryoto lay before him, should he
continue this fight to its finish? That was what Gracchus wanted. And what of the Jin’Sai? he
wondered. If Tristan reached Shashida, he was surely in Ryoto, plotting with the Chikara Inkai. As
Gracchus said, there would be no better time for Vespasian to kill the Jin’Sai than now, hopefully
before the Vigors mystics could imbue Tristan’s blood with spells that might match his own…
“Here we are,” Lucius announced, returning Vespasian to the issue at hand. “What say you, my
liege? It goes well, don’t you think?”
The scene before them was amazing in its scope and efficiency. No other force on earth could
accomplish so much so fast, Vespasian realized as he watched his legionnaires and mystics go
about their unique labors.
Like the many other staging areas dotting the valley, this one was supervised by a tribune.
Vespasian knew Antonius Tertia well, as they had served together on many campaigns. As the
Lead Tribune of the Thirty-third Legion, Antonius had acquired a fearsome battle reputation, and
like Lucius he was a legendary womanizer. Tall and broad, he wore a great red beard. Like the
other legionnaires toiling under the hot Shashidan sun, he had stripped down to his waist, and his
bare skin shone with the sweat of his labors. As the trio approached he did not look up, involved
as he was in recording the latest tallies in a beeswax diptych.
Vespasian smiled. “Are you so greedy to collect Shashidan gold that you have no words for an old
friend?” he chided the tribune.
Looking up from his book, Antonius smiled back and gave the three visitors a perfect salute.
“Indeed not, my liege!” he said robustly. “Your visit is an honor!”
After paying his respects to the empress and Lucius, Antonius gestured toward the amazing
sight. “Impressive, is it not?” he asked. “All of this gold, ours for the taking!”
As the legionnaires harvested the gold by hand from the riverbeds and mountainsides, it was
loaded onto horse-drawn carts. The six-horse teams then drew the gold toward larger wagons.
The larger wagons measured ten meters long by five meters wide and were built of stout
Rustannican oak with iron-braced floors. When filled to the brim, each cart carried about ten tons
of pure gold. Then each cart was pulled by a team of six great beasts into the azure portal located
at each staging area, where it was sent by way of the craft to Ellistium. There the cart was
unloaded, and it and its beasts were returned to the valley by tribune mystics under the command
of Flavius Maximus, Vespasian’s choice as Imperator Tempitatus.
Suddenly Vespasian heard a great noise and turned to look. The Bedevilers seem unusually
ill-tempered today, he thought. Smiling, he watched the great beasts that stood harnessed to the
larger carts, impatiently waiting as the carts were filled.
Bedevilers were massive creatures that had been conjured by the Pon Q’tar to serve a variety of
wartime purposes. Standing ten meters tall, each creature stood upon four huge cloven hooves.
Their powerful legs allowed them to run swiftly if need be and to move great loads. They
possessed dark, shaggy bodies that were stout and powerful, and they had thick, bull-like necks.
Their wide heads were also bovine in nature, with long black horns and dark eyes set far apart.
Another long, sharp horn meant for stabbing enemy troops and throwing them into the air
extended from either side of the beasts’ pink snouts.
Bulls were revered in Rustannica for their strength, loyalty, and fertility, and sacrificing one to the
Vagaries was considered a sacred rite. It was for those same qualities that the Pon Q’tar chose
bulls as the template for these creatures that served the mighty legions so well. Each Bedeviler
carried a roofed wooden platform strapped to its wide back. Each platform could accommodate
ten legionnaires or mystic tribunes at one time. Huge leather bridles adorned the Bedevilers’
heads, the reins leading back to the legionnaire controlling the great beast from the protection of
the roofed platform.
Vespasian smiled as he watched the nearest team of Bedevilers snort and paw at the ground
while they waited for their cart to be loaded. They could be impatient, ill-tempered beasts and
quite difficult to control. Each Bedeviler had one mystic master who oversaw its training and use,
and several lesser legionnaires who saw to its care and feeding. Aside from being the perfect
beasts of burden, Bedevilers also provided excellent platforms from which legionnaires could hurl
azure bolts or use the craft to shoot perfectly aimed arrows.
Their tough hides nearly impervious to any weapon other than one born of the craft, the beasts
had been known to charge through Shashidan forces with abandon, causing havoc and crushing
katsugai mosota by the scores in their wakes, thereby earning their names. If needed, they could
be relied on to mow down trees as they cleared pathways for Vespasian’s foot soldiers. They
were highly valuable tools of war and perfectly suited to the task of hauling the captured
Shashidan gold toward the waiting portals. As he stood watching them, for the thousandth time
Vespasian found himself glad that they were not servants of the Shashidan cohorts.
Again opening the diptych, Vespasian took another glance at the gold tally inscribed at the bottom
of the single beeswax page. His legions had been at the task for but one day and half of the next,
but the tonnage was already huge, most of it safely in Ellistium’s coffers and loyally guarded by
Flavius Maximus and his home legions. Balancing his nation’s pecuniary needs against the
greater objective, Vespasian made a fateful decision. He handed the diptych back to Lucius.
“I will permit the legionnaires to harvest gold for the rest of today and all of tomorrow,” Vespasian
told Lucius. “When dawn rises the day after next, I want this entire army ready to move. Whatever
gold has been sent home by then will simply have to suffice.”
“As you order, my liege,” Lucius answered. He gave his friend and emperor a wry smile. “May the
First Tribune inquire as to our new destination?”
Vespasian thought somberly for a moment before answering.
“Order the Pon Q’tar to prepare portal calculations that will transport our army onto the flat plains
south of here, near where the Alarik again divides,” Vespasian answered. “From there we
advance on Ryoto. The attack will be risky, but there might never again come such an excellent
chance to kill all the Shashidan leaders and the Jin’Sai at the same time.”
As Vespasian’s eyes again scanned the snowy peaks that so worried him, his expression
darkened further.
“My heart tells me that Tristan is plotting with the Inkai,” he said softly. “Since the days that we
were born, our meeting was meant to be. Let us finally make it so.”

CHAPTER XLVI
PULLING HER STRONG WINGS THROUGH THE EVENING air, Sigrid soared eastward high
above Eutracia. The night was clear, allowing her an excellent view of the ground below. Perhaps
more than any other Minion, she was the one most eager to begin this fight. More important, she
considered it her personal mission to ensure that Valda and the twenty-eight other members of
the Night Witch patrol she once commanded had not died in vain. Our revenge will be sweet, she
thought as her dark eyes scanned the Sippora River slipping by beneath her.
Despite her broken arm, soon after she reported back from the slaughter in Tanglewood she had
begged Traax for command of another Night Witch group. Traax had agreed heartily, adding that
although her group had perished, no one considered her personally responsible for the defeat. In
fact, her service and bravery had been exemplary, he said. It was because of these qualities that
she had been given the honor of leading this vastly important war party through the night. Although
her fellow Minions saw her as a hero, Sigrid did not share that opinion. For her, this new
command was a rare opportunity to redeem her honor, and she would sooner die than waste it.
Looking rearward, she saw her twenty-nine new Night Witches steadfastly following her. Rather
than accept command of an established group, Sigrid had requested only Minion females whose
specialized Night Witch training was still incomplete, so that she might mold them to her liking.
After Traax granted her request, Sigrid hand-picked the twenty-nine who would become hers.
Despite her injured arm, Sigrid had been training these women since the Tanglewood slaughter,
and they were ready to serve. Sigrid had learned much from that fight, and in some ways her new
group was superior to the one she lost. Their new war cry “Remember Tanglewood!” was heard
each time her group took to the skies and went on patrol.
Show yourself, Khristos, she thought as the cool evening air rushed past her face. This time you
will not find my warriors to be such easy prey.
Half the entire Minion force followed her lead, six of them carrying a litter bearing Shailiha, Faegan,
and Traax. Determined never to make the same mistake again, Shailiha ordered that Aeolus,
Duvessa, Sister Adrian, all the consuls and acolytes, and the other half of the Minion force remain
behind to guard the palace and the Redoubt. They would be sorely missed in the coming fight, but
every Conclave member had agreed with the princess’s decision.
Gambling that Khristos and his vipers were heading toward the coast, the war party had left the
palace two hours ago to fly east, following the course of the Sippora River. In truth the Conclave
could not know the enemy’s position. But if Khristos and his forces wished to remain unseen, they
had no choice but to remain submerged in the Sippora.
That left the Viper Lord only three options. He could remain in the river, he could head upstream
and deeper into Eutracia, or he could head downstream toward the sea. Staying in place seemed
unlikely, for Khristos surely knew that the section of river where the recent fighting had taken place
would be swarming with Minion warriors desperate to kill him and his followers. The enemy might
proceed upriver, but Traax had wisely ordered several thousand of his troops to swoop low over
the river and continuously dredge its bottom with weighted nets. Khristos could easily use the
craft to destroy the nets, the Conclave realized, but if he did, they would know it, and Shailiha’s
war party could be called home to deal with him there.
Heading toward the sea was Khristos’ likely choice, the Conclave decided. Perhaps of greatest
concern was that the Sea of Whispers would provide a huge place in which Khristos and his
Blood Vipers could hide. No longer limited to Eutracia’s rivers, they could travel up and down the
length of the Eutracian coastline at will, then surface anywhere of their choosing and travel
overland. They could also again slink up the length of the Sippora River, or choose the Vitenka
River lying to the south from which to reenter Eutracia.
The theory that Khristos was heading for the sea was but one of several possibilities, but by
necessity it must be the first place that the Conclave searched. Once the Viper Lord and his
followers were loosed into those waters, all the advantages would be theirs. Searching the sea
itself would be pointless, for if Khristos had already managed to reach it he could be lurking
anywhere in its depths. And so the Conclave’s search would start at the coast of the Cavalon
Delta and backtrack westward along the Sippora’s winding length. It was hoped that Khristos and
his vipers would be found somewhere between the delta and where the Minions dredged the
Sippora in Tammerland.
Sitting in the speeding litter alongside Faegan and Traax, Shailiha looked eastward with worry.
Unlike the many other times when she had faced danger, tonight she felt hesitant. Despite the
wondrous help given to the Conclave by the Chikara Inkai, the marked absence of so many
Conclave members was causing her to feel uneasy, as if an important part of her human arsenal
were missing. Abbey’s death had heightened this feeling, as did her brother’s absence. If was as
if little by little the membership of the Conclave was being stripped away and she would one day
be left all alone to face Eutracia’s foes.
A great portion of her misgivings could be attributed to her infirmities, she knew. Because her
body still ached, she had reason to doubt her swordsmanship. Her hampered vision had
improved little, and it handicapped her not only physically but psychologically as well. Of necessity
she continued to wear the black eye patch, and its presence still caused her to feel freakish and
conspicuous. Even so, she staunchly resolved to keep her personal insecurities hidden and to
command her forces with decisiveness. Suddenly reminded of her late mother, she closed her
eyes.
A queen cannot always let her feelings be known, she thought, even if she is only a queen in
waiting. At least this eye patch has taught me that much.
Sensing her discomfort, Faegan reached out to touch her hand. “A kisa for your thoughts,” he
said.
She gave him a slight smile. “There’s no need to pay me for my thoughts,” she answered. “You’ve
always been able to sense my moods and you know it. It has something to do with being a
wizard, I imagine.”
Faegan smiled. As the litter jounced through the air he cradled the precious vial of subtle matter
lying in his lap.
“Each of us has a part to play,” he answered. “And we can do so only according to our gifts. Your
gifts are great, Shailiha. Never forget that. Despite all of the things that seem to overwhelm you
just now, when the time comes, you’ll do well. I’m sure of it.”
Shailiha’s good eye looked at the vial in Faegan’s lap. “Is that all of it?” she asked.
“I’m afraid so,” Faegan answered. “The length of the Sippora between the delta and Tammerland
is vast. Despite the Inkai’s advice, I hope that there will be no need to use it all. Unless a safe way
is found to travel back and forth between Shashida, we on this side of the world might never see
its like again.”
“Do you agree with the Inkai’s plans for the craft?” Shailiha asked. “Banning the use of
forestallments and destroying the Tome, both Scrolls, and their indexes seem to be drastic
measures. I must admit that such radical theories would never have occurred to me.”
“Nor to me, had they not first been explained to us by the Inkai,” Faegan answered. “Although
seeing things from our perspective is probably impossible because you are so young, you must
always try to remember what has gone before,” he added. “Because the Tome has been in our
possession for hundreds of years and because it taught us how to use the craft, we always
viewed it as a treasure to be protected at all costs. But the Inkai see it as nothing more than some
obsolete old text, and rightly so. The same is true of the Scrolls and their indexes. So you see, it is
all a matter of perspective. Like Wigg and Tristan, we have come to believe that the Inkai are
right. Once Rustannica and Shashida are united, only radical changes to the craft and to
everyone’s blood signatures will enable both sides to live together in peace. If these things are not
done, the continued pull of the Vigors and the Vagaries on the human condition will doom history
to repeat itself. A radical notion, you say? You are right, my dear, but it is far more than that! To us
old mystics, it seems downright treasonous! But that’s the strange thing about a truly honorable
peace, Shailiha. For it to last and to be effective, each side—even the victors—must make
sacrifices. That’s the mistake that the late Directorate made with the Coven of Sorceresses, and
no one need tell you about how that came back to haunt us! If Tristan and the Inkai can one day
defeat Rustannica, the craft and the world it governs will likely change forever.”
Taking his gaze from hers, Faegan looked out toward the eastern horizon.
“I hope we will all live to see that day,” he added quietly.
“As do I, old friend,” replied the princess.
Just then a Night Witch flew up alongside the litter and shouted something to Traax. Traax
nodded, then ordered her to return to the formation. He was by Shailiha’s side in seconds.
“Sigrid informs us that the coast is near, Jin’Saiou,” he said. “What are your orders?”
Shailiha looked eastward to where the sea met the shore. The Cavalon Delta lay there, the
Sippora separating into three streams across its marshy land before it flowed into the sea.
Khristos could be hiding in one or more of those branches, or in none of them, she realized.
“We will perform this search one stream at a time,” she ordered. “If he is not found, we will search
the next one and finally the third, if need be. Only when we know that all three branches are free of
him will we turn westward and search the river proper. Order Sigrid to lead us toward the
shoreline where the southernmost branch meets the sea. We will start our search there.”
Traax stood and snapped his boot heels together. “Very good, Highness,” he answered. Looking
toward his warriors, he immediately began barking out orders. At once the entire war party started
its descent and turned southeast.
Within moments they had arrived. As the flight of warriors swooped low over the estuary, Shailiha
turned to Faegan and nodded.
At once the crippled wizard lifted the precious vial from his lap and poured some of the precious
subtle matter onto the surface of the stream. As it landed atop the water, he recited the
incantation supplied to him by the Inkai.
When he finished, Shailiha gave him a worried look. “Can this actually work?” she asked. “It
seems impossible…”
“I understand,” Faegan answered, his eyes glued intently on the water. “Even so, because this
part of the process has been taught to us by the Inkai, I do not doubt its efficacy. Once Khristos
has been found, it’s the next part of the plan that gives me pause.”
“Why?” she asked.
“Because we will then be relying on Failee’s mastery of the craft, rather that the expertise of the
Shashidans,” he answered, still searching the water for signs of life. “The First Mistress was
brilliant, but the secret spell that she devised to deal with Khristos and then hid in her grimoire
remains untested—it must be so, or the Viper Lord and his servants would already be dead.
Thus, we cannot be sure that it will work. An unproven spell is a dangerous thing, Princess. For
each way that it can go right, there are always one hundred ways for it to go wrong. We agree that
it worked at one time, because as you know, Succiu once used it centuries ago to torture
someone who would later become a member of the Conclave. But that person had been human,
and our enemies are not. If the spell does not perform exactly as outlined in Failee’s grimoire, we
might accomplish no more than to unleash an even greater monster of some kind. I suspect that
even Failee was unsure how her original spell might have affected Khristos and the viper embryos
when she first condemned them to that river in Hartwick Wood. If they were somehow further
changed without her knowing, all of this might be a grave mistake.”
Faegan shook his head as he suddenly grasped a bizarre irony.
“For the first time in my more than three centuries of existence, I am forced to hope that one of
the First Mistress’s spells works perfectly,” he said ruefully. “May the Afterlife forgive me for this
use of the Vagaries.”
Shailiha looked back down at the southernmost stream and saw that the telltale phenomena
described by the Inkai were not appearing.
“We have failed here,” she said. “We must search the next branch.”
After Shailiha shouted out new orders to Traax, the Minion commander relayed them to Sigrid and
the war party turned north. Soon they were at the shoreline where the middle stream met the sea.
Again the Jin’Saiou nodded to Faegan, and the wizard started the painstaking process anew. After
more subtle matter had been dropped onto the water, Faegan again recited the incantation. Tense
moments passed as the war party hovered, every eye trained on the dark, rippling water below.
Suddenly Shailiha saw the glow of the craft appear. The process was mesmerizing. Little by little,
azure dots of light were gathering atop the surface of the tributary. Before she knew it there were
thousands of them, each one signifying the exact place where a Blood Viper lurked in the water
below.
Then her blood ran cold as she realized that the multitudes of haunting azure dots were slowly
moving toward the restless ocean. In mere moments the first of them would enter the Sea of
Whispers and perhaps escape forever. Desperate to start the second part of the process, she
turned toward Faegan.
“We’ve found them!” she shouted. “But we have little time! You must call Failee’s spell before
they reach the sea!”
Everyone in the war party knew how vitally important it was that Faegan perform the next part of
the attack flawlessly, lest the monsters and their terrible leader escape them forever. Summoning
all of his power, Faegan began reciting Failee’s centuries-old incantation:

’Tis your blood that is sought;
’Tis heat to be wrought;
No god or man can end my toil;
No savior may cause this enchantment to spoil;
I command your blood essence to writhe and churn;
You shall feel your very soul to burn.

Her heart in her throat, Shailiha stared breathlessly at the water.

CHAPTER XLVII
STANDING ON THE FOREDECK OF THE TAMMERLAND , Tristan could scarcely believe his
eyes. The scene unfolding all around him was overwhelming, proving once and for all that the
War of Attrition was indeed conducted on a scale that he and his fellow Eutracians could once
have scarcely dreamed of. Yet here they were, about to become a part of it. Simply contemplating
the coming fight caused his newly gifted blood to pulse stronger.
Two days had passed since the Inkai granted him their versions of the banned forestallments.
Just as the elders had feared, the ordeal had almost destroyed him. Twice during the agonizing
process he nearly died, his heart beating so wildly that it almost ruptured as Wigg, Tyranny,
Jessamay, and the Inkai watched and worried.
Only Mashiro’s craft skills kept Tristan from perishing as the spells first assaulted his blood, then
finally became part of it. The process complete, he had lain senseless in his private quarters for
four more hours before regaining consciousness.
Tristan had awoken weakened and confused. Wigg, Jessamay, Tyranny, and Hoshi were all there
waiting to welcome him back to the world. He spent the remainder of that day and night resting.
On the following morning he felt much like his old self again and he had demanded a hearty
breakfast.
With Wigg and Jessamay looking on, Tristan spent the following day with Mashiro as the Inkai
elder explained his new gifts and instructed him in how to summon and dismiss them. Tristan’s
new abilities sounded so awesome that he and the other Eutracians could scarcely believe what
they were hearing. Along with his instruction to Tristan, Mashiro added a grave warning: Because
you are still unaccustomed to your powers, they are not to be summoned until they are needed on
the battlefield, he cautioned the Jin’Sai. And only on Hoshi’s orders, he added.
Later that day, the Inkai granted him, Wigg, Jessamay, Astrid, and Phoebe the much-needed
language forestallments that allowed them to speak both Shashidan and Rustannican. The
Eutracian mystics were astounded at how suddenly their new gifts took hold, causing them to
involuntarily slip from one of the three languages now at their command into another one almost
without knowing. Smiling at their ineptitude, Mashiro told them that with practice, their control over
the languages would soon improve.
The next morning, Tristan stood squarely on the deck of the Tammerland watching the Shashidan
forces gather for the coming fight. He understood all too well that he was an irrevocably changed
man. Never again would he return to the lesser being that he had once been, nor could he
envision wishing to so do. It was his destiny to take part in this fight.
Tristan had never felt so powerful, so alive. He knew instinctively that even his gift of K’Shari paled
when compared to the new powers flowing through his veins. He felt like a towering giant among
men, as if his will alone could shape the world and its events to his liking. Moreover, it was all he
could do to keep from using his gifts here and now. They beckoned to him, begging to be used.
But as much as these new feelings enthralled him, they also worried him.
He wisely confided in Wigg and Mashiro his desire to loose his gifts prematurely. As Wigg
listened, he became very concerned. Mashiro did his best to reassure them by saying that the
Inkai believed this was to be expected. Given the nature of the Jin’Sai’s blood and the immense
power it now held, how could one imagine otherwise? he asked.
He went on to say that the Inkai also believed that Tristan’s mind would overcome these
temptations, just as they guessed Vespasian’s had done. Although Tristan’s blood had been
granted these unprecedented gifts, it had not been fundamentally changed. Tristan’s great need to
be errant was not dangerous, Mashiro added, provided the Jin’Sai controlled his new gifts to the
best of his abilities and employed them only in the service of the Vigors. By granting him the
banned forestallments, the Inkai had placed more trust in him than in any other human being that
had ever existed in the history of Shashida. Listen to Hoshi and use your new gifts wisely, Mashiro
said, lest the world suffer at your hand rather than be helped by it.
With the arrival of Tristan’s new gifts, everyone seemed to regard him with awe and
apprehension. The Shashidans bowed deeper toward him, and when they spoke their tones
conveyed even greater humility and reverence. Even his fellow Eutracians seemed unsure how to
behave in his presence. Such behavior toward him seemed only to heighten his newfound sense
of separateness.
Hearing boot heels strike the deck, Tristan turned to see Wigg approaching. Like Tristan, the First
Wizard had chosen to go to war wearing his customary Eutracian clothes. Although he and
Tristan had become accustomed to Shashidan garb, today their old clothes felt more appropriate.
Tristan’s worn leather vest, black breeches, and knee boots seemed like old friends, as did his
dreggan and his throwing knives. Like Tristan’s clothes, Wigg’s boots and worn gray robe had
been spotlessly cleaned. For a long time the two friends simply stared in awe at the gathering
Shashidan forces.
“Have you ever seen the like?” Tristan asked, using the Shashidan dialect.
Remaining silent for a time, Wigg placed his hands into opposite robe sleeves.
“There simply are no words,” he finally answered in kind.
As the Shashidan war forces gathered around the two Black Ships, Wigg empowered the
Tammerland while Jessamay piloted the Ephyra, the Eutracian vessels hovering side by side at
an attitude of about one hundred meters. Tyranny, Scars, and Ox were also aboard the
Tammerland, while Phoebe and Astrid were stationed on the Ephyra. The Black Ships’ decks
were swarming with Tristan’s Minions, each warrior spoiling for a fight. Even the stalwart Minions
had been rendered speechless as they too watched the massive Shashidan army gather in the
sky around them.
The Black Ships’ journey from Ryoto to these distant flatlands had been accomplished by way of
azure portals. Several Shashidan divisions, or bunkatsu, had gone through first to make sure that
the staging area south of the lower Tani Kinkiro entrance was clear of the enemy. Each division
held ten thousand male and female katsugai mosota. Only after the staging area was deemed
free of the enemy were Tristan’s two Black Ships and the remainder of the Shashidan army
allowed to follow. As Tristan watched the Shashidan forces continue to pour forth from the
whirling airborne portals, their growing ranks seemed endless.
Once gathered, the Shashidan forces would be staggering in their power. Each cohort, or kensai,
held ten divisions, for a total of one hundred thousand fighters. Like the Rustannican legions, each
kensai was commanded by an expert mystic or mahotsukai. The Shashidan army held thirty
kensai, meaning that it easily numbered three million katsugai. Julia Idaeus had informed them
that the Rustannican legions numbered at least that many soldiers, perhaps more. As Tristan
looked around he realized that when finally assembled, the Shashidan forces would stretch
across the sky as far as the eye could see. Six million warriors would soon clash in one of the
mightiest struggles ever witnessed on earth.
The Shashidan attack would be partly an airborne assault and a partly a ground assault, Mashiro
had told the Eutracians. The goal was to strike with speed and surprise while Vespasian’s troops
were still busy plundering the gold. Half of the Shashidan forces were already on their way north
by azure portal to a point above the far entrance to the Tani Kinkiro. When both staging areas
were ready, two opposing Shashidan attacks would crush Vespasian’s legions guarding the valley
entrances and then proceed toward each other down the valley’s length, killing as they went.
Vespasian’s legions situated in the valley would be forced to hold their positions if they wished to
keep on harvesting gold. But the trapped Rustannican forces would surely fight back with
everything they had, and the struggle would be savage in its ferocity.
The Inkai guessed that Vespasian would realize it was better to keep what gold he had taken and
retreat to fight another day, rather than remain in the valley and fight it out. The loss of the gold
would be unfortunate, Mashiro said, for it would enable Vespasian to continue fighting this war for
decades to come or longer. Even so, during the brief time available to them, the Rustannicans
could not have pilfered enough gold to make any appreciable difference to the Shashidan coffers.
Taking back the valley was the main goal, the Inkai decided. But should Vespasian foolishly
decide to fight to the end, the katsugai would gladly oblige him. So as to speed the lightning
Shashidan attack, no slow-moving supply lines would be established unless the battle became a
protracted one. Like the Rustannicans, the Shashidans had conjured beasts at their disposal. But
because transporting and handling the various Vigors beasts was a laborious process, it was
decided that they would not be employed despite the presence of Rustannican Blood Stalkers and
Bedevilers. The katsugai mosota understood that they alone would bear the full weight of the
attack, and they accepted the responsibility with relish.
As Tristan and Wigg watched, ever more Shashidan airborne war barges exited the azure portals,
each one crammed full of katsugai mosota. Soon the great airships would blot out the sky. When
Tristan had first seen the Black Ships, he was staggered by their size. He couldn’t imagine that
any vessel of the sea or of the air might eclipse them in sheer magnitude. But he had been wrong.
Unlike the frigatelike Black Ships, the Shashidan vessels were true barges. Also known as tataki
fune, their primary mission was to bring as many katsugai to the fight as possible while protecting
them at the same time. Azure portals were infinitely faster at transporting soldiers and materiel,
but their inherent drawback was the immediate vulnerability of those rushing from its depths as
they emerged onto the battlefield. Although far slower, the flying barges afforded greater protection
to the troops while deploying them where the real fighting raged.
Each tataki fune was square in shape, measuring four hundred meters on every side. Their hulls
were flat, and each one could accommodate a full Shashidan division of ten thousand katsugai.
Made of wood and protected against harm by Inkai enchantments, they carried no sails but were
empowered by expert katsugai craft practitioners, four to each barge. Their wooden sides were
straight and flat, with portholes through which the katsugai mosota and barge pilots could look out.
Each tataki fune was painted a vibrant color matching the armor color of the katsugai division that
it carried. To give them a fearsome appearance, intricately carved heads representing various
Shashidan mythological beasts projected from their bows, and corresponding tails were fixed to
their sterns. They were truly amazing craft constructs, and their magnificence only added to
Tristan’s growing sense of awe.
And commanding it all—her authority over all the Shashidan forces absolute—was the woman
called Hoshi of the House of Lotus Blossoms.
Tristan had not seen Hoshi that day, but he knew that she was there somewhere, busily preparing
the Shashidan forces for their attack. He knew so little about her, he realized.
How old was she really, he wondered, and how had she come to be the supreme commander of
all the Shashidan forces? Was she in fact ancient and protected by time enchantments, as were
the other members of the Chikara Inkai? Her youthful appearance was incongruous among the
Inkai elders, yet her vision and counsel were equally respected. Tristan assumed that only the
Inkai superseded her military authority, but he could not be sure. One thing was certain, however:
She was a true warrior. Moreover, she brooked no misbehavior from her katsugai, and her orders
were sometimes expertly enforced by the use of her sword. As well they should be, he thought
grimly.
Just then Tyranny, Scars, and Ox approached. Saying nothing, Tyranny produced her gold case
and lit a cigarillo. Like Wigg and Tristan, today she wore her Eutracian clothes. Tristan smiled as
he was reminded how piratical she could appear.
Tousling her dark hair in disbelief, she took another deep lungful of smoke as she watched the
huge tataki fune taking up their massive formations in the sky.
“I see it, but I still can’t grasp it,” she breathed.
“I know,” Tristan answered, remembering to speak only Eutracian in her presence.
“Ox always believed Black Ships big,” the huge Minion said. “They be nothing next to Shashidan
vessels.”
Tristan was about to respond when one of the Shashidan war barges floated dangerously near
the Tammerland. It was packed to overflowing with eager katsugai. As the barge pulled alongside,
its katsugai bowed to Tristan reverently, but foremost in his mind was the worry that the two
vessels might collide. He was about to order Wigg to shear the Tammerland away when he saw
an armored katsugai mystic officer levitate from the barge to land on the Black Ship’s foredeck.
The fighter stood there for a moment, looking at him from behind an elaborate war mask. This
was Tristan’s first glimpse of a fully armored katsugai close up, and the effect was chilling.
Armor covered the katsugai’s head and body, leaving virtually no place vulnerable to attack. It was
constructed of lightweight metal plates bound together by leather cords, each plate overlapping
the next. The plates had been lacquered a shiny black to make them waterproof and to identify the
cohort and the air barge to which he belonged. Chain mail connected the plates at strategic joints,
allowing for freedom of movement. The various pieces included a breastplate and back-plate,
greaves, gauntlets, footwear, and an elaborate helmet. Broad shoulder pads of bright red woven
metal draped down over the upper arms. The gloves were of black chain mail.
The helmet was particularly fascinating. Also made of black lacquered metal, it was rounded on
the top, with a wide brim to keep the sun out of the fighter’s eyes. A broad, low-slung metal shield
attached to the back of the helmet protected the katsugai’s neck from rearward blows. The helmet
was held in place by a thick black leather cord tied under the katsugai’s chin in a large bow.
Of all its amazing features, the helmet’s face mask was the most intimidating. It too was made of
shiny black lacquered metal, and the image engraved upon it was fearsome. The eye slits were
slanted and wicked-looking, the facial expression warlike, the open mouth and sneering lips
twisted into a seething grimace. More chain mail protected the katsugai’s throat, and the
traditional long and short swords were secured at the fighter’s left hip. Taken as a whole, the
effect was daunting. To an uninitiated enemy, the mere sight of this armored warrior might well
cause him to throw down his weapons.
Tristan was about to speak when the katsugai extended one gloved hand and grasped the chin of
his mask. The mask swiveled upward ingeniously and disappeared into the space between the
crown of the katsugai’s head and the top of his helmet. Removing the helmet, with a shake of her
head Hoshi tossed her long black hair free. She gave Tristan a solemn bow which he politely
returned, once he recovered from his astonishment.
“We are ready, Jin’Sai,” she said simply. “It is time for you to come with me.”
Tristan nodded. It would feel strange to leave his friends just before the battle, but it had to be this
way, for he was not leading this fight. Hoshi was in command and he had pledged to obey her. He
turned to look at Wigg.
“I leave command of the Minions and the Black Ships to you,” he said. “Aid the struggle to the best
of your abilities. I will be on Hoshi’s barge, also doing what I can.”
A somber look on his face, Tristan stepped forward and embraced Wigg.
“Goodbye for now, old friend,” he said quietly. “In Abbey’s name, kill as many Rustannicans as
you can.”
Nodding, Wigg blinked away a tear. “Take care, Jin’Sai,” he answered. “Above all, remember
Mashiro’s warnings and use your new gifts wisely.”
After again looking into Wigg’s misty eyes, Tristan turned and walked to Hoshi’s side. Hoshi put
her helmet back in place, then pulled down her war mask and raised one hand in Tristan’s
direction. They levitated up and away from the Tammerland’s bow deck to land on Hoshi’s war
barge.
Moments later, the order was given, and the mighty Shashidan armada turned to sail into history.

CHAPTER XLVIII

FROM HER PLACE IN THE HOVERING LITTER, SHAILIHA looked breathlessly down at the
Sippora River’s middle stream. Failee’s spell is working! she realized.
Faegan’s recitation of the incantation found in Failee’s grimoire was initiating a Blood Pox on
Khristos and his vipers. It was succeeding exactly as it would have done for the First Mistress,
had she lived and found it necessary to destroy her terrible creations. The first part of the plan had
been to find Khristos by following the Inkai’s instructions in the use of the subtle matter. Now that
the second part of the attack plan had taken effect, every pair of eyes in the hovering war party
watched with rapt fascination as Failee’s ancient, long-forgotten spell went about its grisly work.
The spell was designed to raise the blood temperature of Khristos and his followers until they
died. They would suffer horrible, torturous deaths, the punishments more than appropriate for the
crimes that the Viper Lord and his gang of monsters had committed against humanity.
There was a welcome kind of rough justice about unleashing Failee’s Blood Pox against her own
creations, Shailiha thought as she watched the waters of the Sippora writhe and churn. Not only
would the Viper Lord and his followers be tormented, but there would be an added sense of
retribution in the name of a departed Conclave member. For this was the very spell that Succiu,
Second Mistress of the Coven, had used to trap and to torture Geldon, the hunchbacked dwarf
that she first discovered in the Parthalonian Ghetto of the Shunned. Later she would employ him
as her personal slave, forcing him to scour Parthalon for suitable victims on whom she would
practice her bizarre predilections. The Blood Pox had left Geldon impotent and sterile—two
afflictions that Succiu refused to cure. Geldon had been loyal and brave, and he had been
instrumental in helping the Conclave to win some of its most important battles over the Vagaries.
But an assassin in the service of the Vagaries had killed him, and to this day his fellow Conclave
members missed him deeply.
Taking her eyes from the churning water, Shailiha looked to the nighttime sky and toward the
seemingly limitless number of stars suspended from its ebony canopy. Since the day she had
learned of Geldon’s death, she liked to believe that one of those stars represented his soul, that
soul that had been so much greater than the stunted body that contained it. May you now rest
peacefully, my friend, she thought.
Looking back down at the roiling, steaming water, Shailiha suddenly felt the need to attain another
form of justice. This need was personal, and it quickly overpowered her. Her face a mask of grim
determination, she turned to Faegan.
“Stop applying the spell,” she ordered.
Faegan was stunned by her words.
“But it’s working, Princess!” he protested. “You mustn’t order me to stop now! Given more time,
their blood will literally boil, killing them all! Why in the name of the Afterlife would you order me to
stop?”
Incensed, Shailiha glared into Faegan’s eyes. “If you stop the spell, are Khristos and his followers
likely to emerge?” she demanded.
Faegan looked at her quizzically. “I would suspect so,” he answered, still bewildered by the
Jin’Saiou’s demand. “They will likely attribute their suffering to the boiling water, not knowing that it
is in fact their own rising blood temperatures that are causing the water to heat.”
“And will Khristos still be able to call the craft?” she demanded.
“I do not know,” Faegan answered. “But because the Blood Pox raised his blood temperature to
such a high level, his powers have probably been at least somewhat lessened. That might have
been the goal of Failee’s spell all along. His Blood Vipers will probably be similarly affected.”
“Good,” Shailiha answered. “Now stop employing the spell! That is a direct order!”
Still confused, Faegan simply stared back at her. If he was to do this thing, he was determined to
understand her reasons.
“But why?” he again protested, this time fairly screeching at her.
Raising one hand, Shailiha pointed to her black eye patch. “This is why!” she shouted. “And I do
this for Abbey as well! I want that abomination of the craft to know that it was I who killed him!
Now are you going to obey my orders before it’s too late?”
“Very well,” Faegan answered. “But after the spell is gone, what are your plans?”
“The plan is simple,” Shailiha answered. “When they emerge, I will take the Minions down and kill
them all. You may participate if you like. But this is going to happen with or without you approval.”
Her face grim, the Jin’Saiou looked back down at the roiling water.
“I fully understand that dead is dead, no matter how it is arrived at,” she added quietly. “But how
these abominations meet their end has meaning for me. The Blood Pox seems too easy. I want
them butchered in the same way that they butchered so many of us. I forbid you to use your
powers against the Viper Lord’s person unless he kills me.”
Finally consenting, Faegan ended the spell. Soon the water stopped churning and the rising
steam vanished. Tense moments passed as the hovering war party waited and watched. As the
first of the many reptilian heads broke the surface of the river, Shailiha turned toward Traax.
“Order your warriors and Night Witches to attack,” she said. “Take every head, but leave Khristos
to me.”
“I live to serve!” Traax answered. He quickly shouted out a series of orders to the Minions and
they started peeling off from their formations to dive toward the ground.
“Now get me down there,” Shailiha ordered Traax.
Traax quickly lifted the Jin’Saiou into his arms and turned to fly from the litter. Before he launched
into the air, he looked down to find an empty landing spot. What he saw caused his muscles to
clench.
“Look there!” he shouted.
Shailiha quickly swiveled her head and looked down.
Khristos stood on the riverbank, his face and body covered with boils and his skin scalded red by
the water. As his thousands of Blood Vipers slithered up the banks, Shailiha saw that they were
similarly plagued. Khristos looked up and saw the litter, and his reptilian eyes locked onto
Shailiha’s. Raising one boil-infested hand, he beckoned her down with a sneer.
Without hesitation, Traax snapped open his wings and took flight.
CHAPTER XLIX
AS TRISTAN STOOD BESIDE HOSHI IN THE BOW OF HER black war barge, ten thousand
heavily armed katsugai stood waiting in strict lines behind them, filling the vessel to the gunwales.
Having been ordered to stay behind, Tristan’s Eutracian comrades and his beloved Black Ships
were nowhere to be seen. But he couldn’t risk worrying about them now, he realized. History was
about to be made, and once it began, there could be no going back for either side.
Hoshi had strategically dispersed the war barges that hadn’t already been sent to wait near the
upper entrance of the valley. Some remained near the lower valley staging area with Tristan’s
Black Ships, while the rest had been divided into two opposing flight groups. Closely hugging the
outer slopes of the valley mountain ranges, they quickly flew north and stationed themselves one
league apart from each other in two hovering lines lying along each side of the valley. Then the
great lines of barges levitated at once up the mountainsides, coming to a stop just below the
peaks and out of sight of the Rustannicans raiding the gold below.
Hoshi and Tristan’s barge also hovered very near the snowy summit. So far, it seemed that the
Rustannicans had not detected the Shashidans’ presence. Off in the distance, the Jin’Sai could
make out a war barge dutifully floating at the same altitude on either side of his own. Knowing that
they were there was reassuring.
The weather was brutally cold here, causing Tristan to wish that he had chosen to wear a
shikifuku rather than his Eutracian vest and breeches. Hoshi had offered him traditional katsugai
armor, but because he was unaccustomed to it, he respectfully declined. Snow had started to fall
on the lurking barges, adding a surreal quality to the nerve-racking wait. Soon the mountain winds
arose, causing Hoshi’s black war barge to sway with the familiar creak of a great ship under way.
The Shashidan battle plan sounded effective, but Tristan believed that it would be difficult to
execute, considering the thousands of barges that were to take part. When the assigned time
arrived, the attack was to begin en masse. Because the barges lined the valley on both sides, it
was hoped that the sudden onslaught would be overwhelming, causing the Rustannicans to react
with confusion.
As the katsugai being released from the war barges stationed at the lower and upper entrances
pushed their way into the valley and toward each other, those barges hovering on either side of
the mountains would fly up and over the peaks, then soar down into the valley and also spill forth
their fighters. Tristan still believed that the hugely scaled plan would be immensely difficult to
coordinate, and he tactfully told Hoshi as much. But after Hoshi explained the devices that had
been specially designed to help unify the attack, he quickly changed his mind.
A stout wooden pedestal stood in the bow of their barge. Atop it sat a unique hourglass,
enchanted by the Inkai. Its upper globe was filled with black sand that fell into a matching lower
globe. Both globes glowed with the azure hue of the craft. Each of the thousands of barges was
thus equipped, Hoshi explained. On leaving the staging area, she had enacted the spell that would
cause the sand in every one of the thousands of upper globes to begin falling at once. At the
same time, the enchantment placed into the many upper globes would ensure that all the grains
of sand fell at precisely the same rate. When the sands fully emptied into the lower globes, all the
barges would attack simultaneously.
Tristan looked at the hourglass to see that the grains of sand had nearly all fallen. The attack
would start soon, he realized. Pulling him to one side, Hoshi raised her war mask. Her gaze was
searching, concerned.
“It is doubtful that we will become separated, because the Inkai have ordered you and me to stay
on this barge at all costs,” she said. “It seems that the elders consider us valuable commodities,”
she added with a little laugh.
She then removed a bright red scarf from beneath her armor and tied it around her upper arm.
“Should we lose each other, this will help you to find me again,” she said.
Pausing for a moment, she again looked toward the enchanted hourglass. “The moment grows
near,” she said. “It is time for you to learn your part in all this.”
As Hoshi outlined Tristan’s orders, he listened intently. When she finished, something unexpected
happened. Hearing a rustling of armor, Tristan turned and looked toward the stern of the tataki
fune.
All ten thousand katsugai mosota were on bended knees, heads bowed. There seemed to be a
sea of them on this barge alone. He turned to again look at Hoshi.
“They do not bow to me, Jin’Sai,” she said. “They bow to you. As I speak, the same act of
reverence is happening on every Shashidan barge, but these katsugai here with you and me will
stay with us as our personal bodyguards. It is your time now. Let us start this battle.”
Overwhelmed by the unexpected displays of devotion both seen and unseen, Tristan bowed in
return. The thousands of katsugai mosota came quickly to their feet.
Hoshi lowered her mask, then turned to watch the last sand grains fall into the lower globe. She
quickly shouted a series of orders to her barge’s pilot mystic.
At once the barge soared up the craggy mountainside, its ascent so steep that for a time Tristan
saw nothing but snow-filled sky. On reaching the crest, the barge suddenly righted for the briefest
of moments, then pivoted downward to begin the sharp descent into the valley.
The battle to reclaim the Tani Kinkiro had begun.

CHAPTER L
TO SHAILIHA’S SURPRISE, KHRISTOS TOOK NO IMMEDIATE action against her and Traax as
they descended into the fray. Minions were landing by the thousands to begin fighting the Blood
Vipers, and the erupting chaos was growing by the second. Faegan and Adrian wasted no time in
launching azure bolt after azure bolt down onto the viper hordes still emerging from the tributary.
As Traax and Shailiha landed to face Khristos, the sounds of explosions, screaming, and
death-dealing rose into the night air.
Knowing full well that Shailiha would not be denied her revenge, Traax decided that she must be
protected from the vipers as she confronted the Viper Lord. Shouting out a quick series of orders,
he commanded a group of warriors to form a thick protective ring around the place where Shailiha
and Khristos stood facing each other. Reluctantly joining the ring, Traax grew increasingly worried
as he watched the drama unfold.
Even now Khristos took no direct action against Shailiha, choosing instead to stand his ground
and give the princess a leering smile. His smile broadened further when he noticed her eye patch.
Widening her stance, Shailiha raised her sword.
“So,” Khristos said, “I see that you did not escape the fighting in Tammerland unscathed after all!
You and your wizards likely do not know it, but there is no known cure for viper venom. By the
way, I’m informed by my lead vipers that your herbmistress bitch named Abbey died like the
squealing pig that she was. Partial adepts aren’t like you and me, are they? They’re really little
more than pretenders to the craft.”
Finally choosing to move, Khristos raised his silver staff. “But worry not about your injured eye,
Princess,” he said. “You are about to die, and your darkness will become eternal. The same will
soon be true of your Minions and mystics. I come to this happy conclusion because I can readily
see that my forces outnumber yours. Either we killed far more warriors then we first believed, or
you left a sizable force behind to guard the palace. Even now my vipers slaughter your warriors.”
As Shailiha stood her ground, Khristos smiled again. “Ah, that’s it, isn’t it?” he asked. “Determined
to never make the same mistake again, you made an even greater one by not bringing your entire
force to search us out. Once you and the winged freaks you brought here are dead, taking the
palace and ransacking the Redoubt should be easy.”
Pausing for a moment, Khristos casually spun his staff as he started circling Shailiha. Just as
Tristan had taught her, she pivoted in place as he moved, saving her energy while Khristos
expended his.
“Your method of finding us was very clever indeed,” Khristos said. “We nearly escaped forever
into the Sea of Whispers. But heating the tributary in order to kill us was not so effective, I fear.
Did you not realize that we could simply emerge in order to save ourselves? While it’s true that
we are scalded, we are still quite able to defeat you. It seems that your vaunted Vigors mystics
have finally miscalculated after all.”
Shailiha remained quiet as she glared into his eyes. No longer sleek and smooth, his olive skin
was covered with red, angry boils. The vertical pupils embedded in his almond-shaped yellow
irises still seemed vibrant, and they missed nothing. His black robe lay in even greater tatters and
scarcely clung to his body. As she watched, his bright red tongue slithered in and out of his
mouth, testing the night air.
“We did not heat the river water,” Shailiha said at last. “You and your vipers did that. I allowed you
to emerge so that I might kill you personally.”
Khristos threw back his head and let go a wicked laugh. “The Pon Q’tar told me that you were not
trained in the ways of the craft,” he answered. “Even so, I never dreamed you were so stupid! I
am a powerful wizard, you fool! Do you believe that I can be tricked so easily?”
“It’s quite true,” Shailiha answered. “The spell that we used was of Failee’s making. She hid it in
her grimoire for safekeeping, should she need to kill you and your horrible servants. It wasn’t the
water surrounding you that first became heated.” Smiling slightly, she widened her stance a bit
more, putting Khristos on notice.
“You are the victim of a Blood Pox,” she added quietly.
At the mention of Failee’s name, Khristos looked stupefied, as if he had been struck across the
face.
“You’re lying!” he shouted. “The First Mistress would never have done me harm! We loved each
other!”
“No, Khristos,” Shailiha answered. “You might have loved her, but I doubt that she ever really
loved you. From the time she went mad and left Wigg, she loved only the Vagaries.”
Her expression becoming darker as her memories of the First Mistress surfaced, Shailiha glared
hatefully at Failee’s reptilian creation.
“I should know,” she said menacingly. “For a time, I too was under that bitch’s aegis.”
“I still say you’re lying!” Khristos raged. “And you are about to pay for those lies with your life! I’ll
enjoy watching my vipers eat your liver! It is a prize to which they have aspired for a long time!”
Taking a step closer, he pointed the tip of his silver staff directly at Shailiha’s chest.
To everyone’s amazement, Shailiha lowered her sword and stepped toward the Viper Lord.
Holding her arms wide, she brazenly offered herself up for the killing.
“Then do it, if you’re so sure!” she hissed. “Kill me now and prove the First Mistress’s love for you!
Kill me, you twisted freak!”
Shailiha’s taunting finally put Khristos’ hatred into action. Summoning all his power, he called the
craft.
Shailiha tensed as she watched the craft’s power slowly build in the tip of Khristos’ staff. With a
wicked smile, he let it loose.
The azure beam that streaked toward Shailiha was narrowly focused, yet far slower than any she
had seen before. Whirling to one side and trying to ignore her pain, she avoided it.
Screaming with frustration, Khristos began to grasp the terrible truth. Again pointing his staff at
the Jin’Saiou, he did his best to call the craft. This time the results were even less powerful, and
the azure bolt that erupted from the staff’s point fizzled in midair and crashed to the ground
between them, knocking clumps of dirt and grass into the air.
Shailiha took a deep breath, then raised her sword again. “It’s over for you, Khristos,” she said.
Although they were lessening, from time to time she could still hear the sounds of her warriors
struggling with the vicious vipers.
“Kneel before me and I promise to grant you a quick death,” she offered. “I suggest that you do it.
It’s a far more compassionate way to die than being impaled on a stake and disemboweled.”
Seething with anger, his powers all but gone, Khristos glared viciously at her.
“Never,” he whispered.
Screaming wildly, he raised his staff like a sword and charged straight at her.
Whirling on her heels, Shailiha sidestepped Khristos’ staff as it came flashing down, then brought
her blade around swiftly. Her sword cleanly severed Khristos’ head from his shoulders and it fell
to the ground, its reptilian eyes still wide open. The lifeless corpse crashed down beside it.
The Jin’Saiou took several precious moments to look around. The azure bolts had stopped raining
down, and it seemed that Khristos’ Blood Vipers had been all but vanquished by her Minion
warriors. Given the monsters’ depleted condition, she had gambled that they could be defeated by
a lesser force, and she had won. Wanting to be sure, she called out for Traax.
The Minion commander was by her side in seconds. He appeared exhausted, and his dreggan
blade was covered in blood. Hissing and screaming still pierced the cold night.
“What is our situation?” she demanded.
“Viper stragglers are being killed as I speak,” he answered. “Given the enemies’ weakness from
the Blood Pox spell, our losses were light.”
Shailiha nodded as she sheathed her sword. “See to it that every viper head is taken,” she said.
“Not one of those creatures is ever to walk the earth again.”
“I live to serve!” Traax answered, then quickly turned away to carry out his orders.
Shailiha watched the Minion litter descend and land nearby. As Faegan and Adrian disembarked,
Shailiha approached them tiredly. The look on Faegan’s face told her that he was relieved but
perturbed. Scowling, he folded his arms across his chest.
“You took a great chance, did you not?” he asked. “After all, I said that I couldn’t be sure about
Khristos’ waning powers.” Then the wizard looked at the beheaded corpse and he let go a quick
smile. “But don’t think we’re not glad to see him dead,” he added.
“I trust your judgment,” Shailiha answered simply. “I always have.”
She looked up at the nighttime sky. “It will start soon now, won’t it?” she asked.
Faegan nodded. “No matter how many times I witness it, I remain amazed.”
“As do I,” the princess replied.
No sooner had she spoken than lightning streaked across the sky, accompanied by thunder so
loud she thought her eardrums might burst. On and on the display continued as Khristos’ many
forestallments left his blood to go and find their way back into the Well of Forestallments. The
wind howled, the trees shook, and the gentle waves that had once hidden Khristos and his Blood
Vipers turned into swiftly moving whitecaps. And then, as quickly as it had begun, it was over.
Shailiha placed one hand on Faegan’s shoulder.
“Let’s go home,” she said.
Saying nothing, Faegan grasped her hand and nodded.

CHAPTER LI
AS TRISTAN AND HOSHI’S BARGE PLUMMETED DOWNWARD, at first the Jin’Sai could see
nothing but snow as it rushed toward him. Soon the snowfall became so dense that it became
difficult to see Hoshi, even though she stood at his side.
For a few terrifying moments Tristan wondered how the katsugai officer piloting the barge could
possibly see through the blizzard, then he remembered that the warrior was a Shashidan mystic.
The wind was bitter cold, and had Tristan not been so intent on wanting the barge to clear the
blizzard, he would have realized that his body was trembling and his teeth chattering.
Although he couldn’t see them, Tristan knew that thousands more tataki fune were flying down the
mountain slopes from every direction. Thousands more would be unloading their katsugai
divisions at the north and south valley entrances to claw their way through Vespasian’s legions.
Just then the barge burst from the squall to reveal the lush valley that the Shashidans called the
Tani Kinkiro. The valley was so spectacularly beautiful that Tristan forgot his fear. The rolling
pastures were lush and green, the river running through the valley’s center majestic and swift.
Even from such a great altitude Tristan could see gold veins glinting in the mountainsides and
nuggets twinkling in the riverbed. Then he got his first glimpse of the Rustannican legions, and he
gasped.
Rustannican soldiers blanketed the valley floor. Even now they were hurriedly gathering up all the
gold they could steal. Vespasian’s war tents stretched for leagues toward each end of the valley.
Great herds of exotic beasts could be seen hauling the purloined gold toward hundreds of whirling
azure vortices. Tristan couldn’t begin to imagine how much plunder Vespasian had sent to
Ellistium.
Nor could he guess why the legions had yet to notice the thousands of katsugai-laden barges that
were streaking down the mountainsides, until he grasped how silent was their approach and how
intently the Rustannicans toiled at their labors. But that would soon change, he knew, and he
would be the catalyst of that change.
On Hoshi’s command, their pilot leveled the barge, then caused it to stop and hover about two
hundred meters above the valley floor. None of the other barges was stopping, but Tristan
expected this. His first salvo of the craft was to come straightaway. The goal was for Tristan to
cause as much devastation to the Rustannicans as possible from above, before Vespasian
guessed what was happening and responded in kind. When Tristan unleashed the first of his new
powers, the Rustannicans would immediately realize that they were embroiled in a battle of
unprecedented ferocity.
Hoshi turned to look at the Jin’Sai and pointed toward a group of canvas tents about four hundred
meters away, their tops adorned with bright red battle flags.
“There!” she shouted. “That is Vespasian’s compound! Strike there, Jin’Sai, and with all your
power!”
Although Tristan knew that he must do this thing, he couldn’t escape the feeling that he was
committing murder. How many unsuspecting people would die during his first attack alone? he
wondered. Then another concern gripped him.
“What if Julia Idaeus is killed?” he shouted.
“That is a risk we must take!” Hoshi shouted back. “She knows the time of the attack and she
promised to be near one of the hundreds of Rustannican portals when it starts! You must attack,
Jin’Sai! The time is now, before they see us!”
Tristan closed his eyes, raised his arms, and called the craft. Just as Mashiro had foretold, the
craft obeyed him effortlessly, and he felt its power rise in his veins. Soon hundreds of elegant
spell calculations came roaring into his mind’s eye. Singling out the one that Hoshi and the Inkai
wished him to employ, he caused the others to vanish. Concentrating fully on the lone spell,
Tristan opened his eyes and loosed the first of his wondrous gifts.
Twin beams shot from his hands, their brilliance nearly blinding. Some Rustannican legionnaires
immediately noticed the bolts streaking across the heavens, and they started shouting urgent
warnings to their officers. But it was already too late. Concentrating harder, Tristan called forth the
second part of the spell.
Subtle matter exists everywhere, Mashiro had taught him. Like the energy of the craft, it can be
gathered. But while the uses of azure beams are limited, subtle matter’s applications are many.
Use it in the name of the Vigors, Jin’Sai, for only you can do so. Reclaim the Tani Kinkiro and
send Vespasian’s invading legions fleeing back to Rustannica.
Despite Mashiro’s careful instruction, when Tristan looked to the sky he could scarcely believe
what he saw. Near where his beams streamed, dozens of great meteors were forming from
subtle matter collected by his spell. Bright azure in color and burning and revolving with the
immense power of the craft, each meteor was easily one hundred meters across. As they grew in
size and their surging power begged to be unleashed, Tristan quickly pointed one arm downward,
sending the first of them plummeting straight toward Vespasian’s command post.
The monstrous ball landed with a great crash, destroying everything within its sphere. Tents,
legionnaires, horses, gold, great mounds of earth, all went flying hundreds of meters into the air
and were vaporized. When the smoke cleared, nothing remained where the meteor landed save
for a great smoldering crater.
With Tristan’s first attack the entire valley came alive. Hundreds of thousands of legionnaires
stopped working and quickly formed military ranks. Bugles were urgently blown and war drums
beaten. This instinctive assembly of Vespasian’s legions was just what the Inkai had hoped for.
As soon as the forming legions presented more compact targets, Tristan caused another meteor
to come barreling down out of the sky.
The second one landed directly in their midst. Tens of thousands of legionnaires were killed on
the spot, the body parts of those not instantaneously vaporized flying through the air like so many
dried leaves on a stiff wind. Like the time before, when the smoke cleared there was nothing to
show for the many brave soldiers who had once assembled there, save for another great crater
and a quickly growing odor of burning flesh.
Tristan was about to send another meteor crashing down when Hoshi grabbed his arm, stopping
him. “Wait!” she ordered. Then she pointed toward the valley floor. “Look!”
As Tristan gazed down into the valley he quickly grasped why Hoshi had ordered him to desist.
Had he sent another meteor plummeting down, it would have killed as many attacking katsugai as
Rustannican legionnaires. From now on his targets would be fewer because the battlefield was
changing by the second, breathtaking in its vast scale and terrible in its quickening ferocity.
The thousands of Shashidan war barges had landed on the valley floor to discharge their
katsugai. Screaming madly, the Shashidan warriors flooded against the still-forming Rustannican
legions in mighty clashes of muscle, armor, and steel. Mystic officers on each side of the struggle
soon began using the craft against each other, and the resulting carnage was stupefying.
Aside from hand-to-hand combat, azure bolts crisscrossed the battle scene, killing hundreds at a
time. Explosion after explosion rocked the valley, sending dark smoke hundreds of meters into the
air. Endowed archers from either side launched so many shafts that sometimes the sky went
nearly black with them, each one invariably finding an enemy soldier by way of the craft.
And with the death of so many craft mystics, there soon arrived the stunning atmospheric
phenomena always associated with passing of their blood and the forestallments that that blood
carried. Lightning ripped across the sky and the wind howled violently, threatening to overturn
Tristan and Hoshi’s barge. Tristan had seen these phenomena before, but never with such fury as
this.
Wondering when his fellow Eutracians might join the fight, Tristan looked toward the southern end
of the valley. To his surprise, the Tammerland and the Ephyra had arrived and were soaring
northward, low over the valley floor. The ships must have flown over the legions guarding the
southern pass, Tristan reasoned.
Even from this distance he could see his mystics’ azure bolts streaming down from the ships and
tearing into the swarming legions, and he could imagine Tyranny prowling the topside of the
Tammerland, anxiously shouting out orders. Then he watched the ships suddenly come to a stop
and hover over the green pastures south of his and Hoshi’s position. As ever more azure bolts
streamed down from the Black Ships’ decks, Tristan saw his Minion phalanxes take flight to
attack the nearest legionnaires. He smiled grimly as he realized that Vespasian’s troops were
about to confront a new and more ruthless foe than they had ever seen before.
As the battle raged and lightning continued to tear across the heavens, Hoshi saw something that
made her breath catch in her lungs. Not far from where her and Tristan’s barge hung in the sky, a
host of legionnaires were running furiously toward the Bedeviler pens. Thousands of the
enchanted beasts were being held there, waiting their turns to haul the stolen gold. Screaming
and pawing the ground, the monsters clearly wanted to be unleashed against the flood of
attacking katsugai. Hoshi knew all too well that the pens were craft constructs, their glowing azure
bars impervious to even the massive Bedevilers. Only the legionnaire mystics could release the
beasts, and it would happen in moments.
Hoshi again pointed downward. “There!” she shouted. “That is where you must strike next! Kill the
Vagaries monsters before they can be freed!”
Without hesitation Tristan raised one hand and called down another azure meteor. With a
thunderous crash it landed squarely in the center of the Bedeviler holding area. The beasts and
the frantic legionnaires trying to free them simply disappeared in an eruption of earth and smoke,
never to be seen again.
At Hoshi’s renewed insistence, Tristan again refrained from using his gifts. With their hearts in
their throats, they anxiously waited and watched.

“DO NOT ARGUE WITH ME!” VESPASIAN SCREAMED AT Persephone. “The battle is lost! You
must go while you still can!”
As the fighting raged all around them, Vespasian gripped his wife’s arms and glared into her eyes,
trying to make her understand. Lucius stood faithfully beside him, he too refusing to go until his
emperor did the same.
Vespasian’s legions were fighting back valiantly, and for a time he believed that they might be able
to vanquish the attacking Shashidans. Even when he learned that his forces had been surrounded
and that the north and south valley entrances had been breached, he clung to the hope that his
legions might somehow hold out. But when he saw the first azure meteor rush down from the
heavens, he knew that it could have been summoned by only one living being other than he. After
quickly conferring with Lucius and Gracchus, Vespasian decided to abandon the Vallesis
Majestatis and retreat homeward.
Although taking Ryoto and killing the Inkai would remain dreams for another day, Vespasian had
stolen enough Shashidan gold to finance the War of Attrition for centuries, perhaps longer. From
the start of the campaign, the legionnaires had had standing orders that should their leaders need
to flee, they would defend the portals at all costs while sending as many soldiers home to
Ellistium as they could. Only when the situation was completely hopeless would they close the
portals, so as to keep the hated katsugai from surging through them and invading Ellistium. Many
legionnaires would die while defending the portals. Many more would die once the portals were
withdrawn, their fates sealed to the seething katsugai. But to save the emperor and to ensure the
safety of Ellistium, there was no other way.
Julia Idaeus and the Pon Q’tar had already entered one of the azure portals, and by now they
would have safely reached Ellistium. In a supreme effort of the craft, Gracchus and the other Pon
Q’tar members had managed to force the entire Oraculum Tempitatium into the portal ahead of
them. It had been only the will of the fates that the Rustannican hierarchy had all been away from
their tents supervising the transfer of yet more stolen gold when the first of Tristan’s meteors
devastated the Rustannican war compound.
Vespasian was desperate to learn Tristan’s position and respond in kind, but in the confusion not
one of his legionnaires could say from where the Jin’Sai was unleashing his powers. Immediately
after the Rustannican rulers made their decision to flee, the gold transfers were stopped and they
entered the portals. But when Vespasian told Persephone to go without him, she staunchly
refused.
“What are you going to do?” Persephone screamed at Vespasian. Just then the second of
Tristan’s meteors had slammed into Vespasian’s assembled legions, killing tens of thousands
more.
Despite the carnage all around him, Vespasian was determined to face the Jin’Sai. He had no
death wish, but the Jin’Sai was here in this valley slaughtering his troops with abandon. Another
chance to kill him such as this one might never come again. After Vespasian had seen to it that
his advisors and Persephone had been safely sent home, he was determined to do what no one
else could. He would remain behind for as long as possible and attack the Jin’Sai in kind. Knowing
that he had little time, he turned to look at Lucius.
“You are my most trusted friend!” he shouted. “Trust me one more time and do as I order you!
Take my wife and go!”
Lucius looked into Vespasian’s eyes with a mixture of respect and fear for his old friend. After
shaking his head angrily, he finally relented.
“Very well!” he shouted. “Do what you must, but you cannot allow yourself to fall into Shashidan
hands!”
Vespasian heartily slapped his forearm against Lucius’ and grasped it not as an emperor to a
tribune, but as one legionnaire to another.
“Thank you,” he said simply.
He then turned to look at his wife. “My love, forgive me,” he said.
The swift blow that Vespasian delivered to Persephone’s chin was enough to render her
unconscious, but not so powerful as to do her permanent harm. As she crumpled, Vespasian
caught her in his arms. He could have used the craft to subdue her, he realized, but she would
surely have fought him in kind, wasting valuable time. After kissing her on the cheek, he handed
her over to Lucius.
“Go!” he commanded.
Knowing that he had no other choice, with Persephone in his arms Lucius turned and ran as fast
as he could toward one of the hugely swirling portals. After turning to give his emperor a final look,
he stepped into the portal, and he and Persephone were gone.
Vespasian immediately ran to where his chariot stood waiting. Snatching the reins from his horse
handler, he slapped them across the stallions’ rumps and headed straight for the worst of the
fighting. If he was to find the Jin’Sai he must reach his legion scouts, for only they might know
from where Tristan was launching his powers.
Charging his careening chariot into the heart of the carnage, Vespasian offered a silent prayer to
the Vagaries flame on behalf of Lucius and Persephone.

AS TRISTAN WATCHED THE GROTESQUE BATTLE RAGE ON, he remained stunned by the
wanton loss of life. The death-dealing was extreme and without mercy. Hundreds of thousands
were dying on either side, and the green valley floor was becoming littered with corpses, dead
horses and Bedevilers, and smashed wagons and chariots. Although the vast gold deposits had
been the reason for all this carnage, they had no meaning now. Nothing did, save for staying alive.
More than once it seemed that the Shashidans were about to rule the day, only to have the
Rustannican legions regroup and attack again with renewed fury. Even so, Tristan came to
realize that the advantage belonged to the katsugai. By and large, Hoshi’s plan had worked, and
the legions were surrounded, their valiant soldiers corralled near the valley’s center.
Just then Tristan saw a shadow loom over the valley floor, not far from where their barge hovered.
Looking up at the sky, he saw a huge, very dark cloud forming in the sky. It hovered higher than
their barge and lay about one hundred meters west of them. It would not have seemed unusual
had it not been so much larger and darker than the others. He mentioned the strange-looking
cloud to Hoshi. As she lifted her war mask to take a better look, the blood suddenly drained from
her face.
Knowing that there was no time to warn her barge pilot, Hoshi immediately called the craft and
wrested control from him. At once she caused the barge to lunge forward and heel over hard on
her starboard side.
But even Hoshi’s quick actions hadn’t been enough to avoid disaster altogether. As the first of
Vespasian’s conjured lightning bolts loosed from the dark cloud that he had created, it streaked
toward the tataki fune and struck a thunderous glancing blow to its starboard stern quarter.
The corner of the barge exploded into matchsticks and its bow tilted skyward as the craft
careened through the air. Hundreds of katsugai were instantaneously burned to cinders by the
lightning bolt and hundreds more tumbled through the partly destroyed wall to fall end over end
toward certain death. Holding on to the front wall of the barge for dear life, Tristan and Hoshi
struggled to remain standing while Hoshi fought to regain control of the pitching craft.
Finally she righted the barge. After desperately searching the valley floor, she turned back toward
Tristan.
“Only Vespasian could have done that!” she shouted. “The emperor lives! Worse, he has found
our position, but we do not know his!”
Before Tristan could answer, more terrible lightning ripped free of the ominous black cloud. Hoshi
again did her best to maneuver the barge out of its path, this time barely succeeding. Tristan
watched in awe as the lightning narrowly missed the leading edge of the barge. It passed so near
that everyone aboard felt its heat and heard it crackle with energy as it plummeted earthward.
Using the craft to augment her sight, Hoshi searched desperately for Vespasian’s well-known
gilded chariot and white stallions. She knew that she had little time to search him out before
another lightning bolt struck. Suddenly she spied the chariot and the tall blond figure commanding
it.
“There!” she shouted to Tristan. “Near where the river bends, there are three azure portals lying
side by side! Do you see? Vespasian is there!”
Tristan found the bend in the river, and he could just make out the three azure portals. But
because he could not call the craft in ways that Hoshi might, he did not see Vespasian.
“I see the portals!” Tristan shouted.
“Send one of your meteors there!” Hoshi shouted. “If you do it quickly, even he will not be able to
escape it in time!”
Just as Tristan was about to act, to his horror he saw another dark shadow forming across the
valley floor. Much as the first one had done, it too started to move.
Vespasian has called forth another cloud! Tristan realized. If the emperor simultaneously
launched two lightning bolts from different directions, even Hoshi’s gifts wouldn’t be able to save
them and they would be obliterated. Raising his hands, Tristan quickly launched another azure
meteor. But even as he saw the meteor start plummeting earthward, he realized that another of
Vespasian’s lightning bolts had been loosed.
Hoshi swung the barge over hard again, but this time the blow was far more direct. Striking the
barge amidships, the lightning bolt blasted much of the craft to bits. Blown head over heels,
Tristan, Hoshi, and thousands of katsugai tumbled toward the ground.
Because his use of the craft had been affected by the exploding barge, Tristan’s meteor
plummeted crazily toward the valley floor. Careening madly, it headed in Vespasian’s general
direction, then veered north before it hit the ground. Tens of thousands of legionnaires and
katsugai were vaporized instantly. The resulting concussion reached Vespasian, throwing him
from his chariot.
As Tristan fell earthward he caught a quick glimpse of Hoshi to see that she had used the craft to
stop her descent, but she had apparently been unable to do the same for him. Over and over he
went, his lungs gasping for air and his limbs flailing wildly. Hoshi acted again, this time sending
down an azure bolt to try to catch him. But she missed widely, the bolt streaking by him.
Suddenly Tristan felt a jolt so great that he thought his back might break. The wind was quickly
knocked out of him and he felt his left shoulder dislocate. As he slipped from consciousness, he
turned to see Ox’s eyes looking into his.
That’s why there were two lightning bolts coming at us at once, he realized. The second shadow
didn’t come from another of Vespasian’s clouds…it came from the Tammerland.
Finally losing consciousness, the Jin’Sai dangled limply in Ox’s arms as the faithful Minion warrior
reversed direction and soared upward.

    LYING PRONE ON THE GROUND, VESPASIAN GASPED AS HE tried to gather his senses.
His chariot was wrecked and his stallions had run away. Screaming fighters still hacked viciously
at one another all around him, and azure bolts from both sides wildly crisscrossed the battlefield.
Coming to his feet, Vespasian called the craft to stem his growing nausea, then tried to assess
the situation.
Screaming katsugai were attacking his forces on all sides. While he had been trying to kill the
Jin’Sai, the Shashidans had closed their circle even more, forcing the legions into a compact
group near the valley’s center. Although Vespasian found himself at the center of that group, the
end would come soon, he realized.
He turned to see three azure vortices nearby. One gallant tribune had taken charge of them,
deciding that the time had come to save as many legionnaires as he could by ordering them
home to Ellistium. As legionnaires swarmed into the vortices, the situation was becoming
hopeless, chaotic. Soon Vespasian was engulfed by soldiers begging him to issue new orders.
Ignoring them, he turned and ran toward the three vortices. As the raging katsugai continued to
press his forces from all sides, Vespasian was forced to make a fateful decision.
He turned to look at the senior tribune who had taken charge of the three portals. Although
admitting defeat was abhorrent to the legions, the tribune was following his orders to the letter.
Still dazed and wobbly, Vespasian staggered toward him and gripped the man’s forearm with his
own.
“You know your orders!” Vespasian shouted as yet another azure bolt tore through the air just
above their heads. “Save as many as you can, then close the portals forever, and see to it that the
same is done with all the others!”
Standing tall, the tribune gave his emperor a perfect salute.
“It shall be done!” he shouted. “I speak for all of us left behind when I say that it has been a
pleasure to serve with you!”
At first Vespasian could find no words. “If you wish to surrender to the katsugai, I will attach no
shame to it!” he finally shouted back. “They do not kill their prisoners! I will return to this land and
free those of you who live, I swear it!”
“You must go now, my liege!” the tribune shouted. “The time grows short!”
Despite the insane fighting closing in on them, for several moments the two men looked each
other in the eye with the unique brand of understanding that only years of service in the legions
could provide. Vespasian did not know this man, nor would he ever get the chance to do so. Even
so, he would never forget this stalwart soldier who sacrificed his own life for that of his emperor.
Vespasian ran into the depths of the whirling portal and vanished.

CHAPTER LII
VESPASIAN SMILED AS HE LOOKED ACROSS THE ARENA. The day would again be hot, and
the two blood-red canopies had been stretched toward one another to provide shade for the
multitudes that had come to take part in their emperor’s victory celebration. So as to keep the
growing crowd amused, he had ordered an initial slate of killings. Blood, wrecked chariots, and
dead skeens littered much of the arena floor.
Because so much Shashidan gold had been brought home to Ellistium, no expense would be
spared on this celebration day. Attendance would be free, thousands of wild animals and
Shashidan skeens would be slaughtered, and the food and wine would be without charge. Every
seat was filled, and Vespasian had issued an unprecedented decree that the public might also
stand in the aisles.
A fortnight had passed since the Battle of the Vallesis Majestatis. Many legionnaires had been
killed, but many katsugai had died as well. To the tribunes’ credit, a surprising number of
Vespasian’s soldiers had escaped through the azure portals before the vortices had been closed.
Vespasian’s dream of taking Ryoto and killing the Inkai had not been realized, but his most urgent
need had been fulfilled beyond his wildest dreams.
Even now, the gold count was still being tallied, to say nothing of how busy the Imperial Mint was
stamping out new coins. Soon Rustannica’s treasury would be filled to overflowing—creative
ways would be needed to deal with all the money. Most important of all, the war against Shashida
could be prolonged for centuries if need be.
Vespasian turned to look at his wife. Persephone had long since forgiven the way in which he had
forced her to escape the battle scene. Dressed in a long red gown, she wore new jewelry of her
own design that had been crafted from the stolen gold.
Lucius Marius sat beside her. Because this celebration was to be unique, he had asked
Vespasian if his latest female conquest might be allowed to accompany him to the emperor’s box.
His mood generous since returning home, Vespasian had approved. The woman was a lovely
creature with long dark hair, and she hailed from an Ellistium krithian family of some note. The
way Lucius coddled her caused Vespasian to wonder whether the legendary First Tribune had
perhaps met his match.
The usual box reserved for the tribunes was full, as was the section meant for the women of the
Priory of Virtue. All twelve members of the Pon Q’tar had survived the battle, and they were in
attendance as well. Tray after tray of sumptuous food was served by Shashidan skeens, and
wine flowed without end. As he waited for the celebration to begin, Vespasian pointed toward his
goblet and caused it to float into his grasp. The rich red wine had been made from the best
Rustannican highland grapes, its finish sweet and strong.
On arriving home, Vespasian’s first order of business had been to call a meeting of the Suffragat,
whereupon Lucius had given the war report and detailed their losses. Many legionnaires and
tribunes had perished, and not one of the Bedevilers had returned. By necessity, vast amounts of
supplies, food, and support troops had been left behind in Shashida.
Even so, these losses paled when compared with the amount of stolen gold that had been taken.
Because the treasury had been so amply refilled, replacing the war materiel would be a simple
matter. Given time, the Pon Q’tar could easily conjure even larger herds of Bedevilers and other
creatures. Even the loss of so many troops did not greatly concern the Suffragat, for now the
empire could afford to offer large financial bonuses to entice enlistees. New blood had been
needed in the legions for a long time, and at last they would have it.
Vespasian and his counselors knew that the campaign losses should not be publicized; therefore
they would be made up a little at a time so as not to arouse suspicion. The Suffragat’s usual
report to the citizenry had been censored even more heavily than usual, and it contained only the
details of a great Rustannican victory and the taking of much gold. Because the treasury was so
full, Vespasian also announced that taxes would be lowered, especially on the trading of slaves.
The mood in the country was joyful, and any hint of rebellion had vanished.
Even so, as Vespasian waited for the celebratory portion of the day to begin, concerns still
plagued him. On returning home, the Oracle had informed Gracchus of Shailiha’s victory over
Khristos, and he had told the Suffragat. When compared to the threat that Shashida continually
presented, the world’s other side remained a relatively minor concern. Even so, the reigning
Jin’Saiou would have to be dealt with in some way.
Most worrisome of all, the Jin’Sai had reached Shashida and he too now commanded
forestallments banned by the Borderlands Treaty. Vespasian had destroyed the Shashidan barge
from which the Jin’Sai had thundered down azure meteors, but as Vespasian’s chariot had
overturned he had not been able to determine whether Tristan had been killed. Sitting back in his
marble throne, Vespasian pursed his lips, thinking.
In a strange way it didn’t matter whether he knew the Jin’Sai’s fate, he realized. If Tristan died
during the battle of the Vallesis Majestatis, so be it. If not, Vespasian would soon know, for only he
and the Jin’Sai commanded such awesome gifts of the craft, and they would surely meet again.
Just then, legionary buglers and drummers entered the arena through the Gates of Life and the
crowd stood and cheered. On a signal from Vespasian, the one-eyed Games Master quickly
swiveled a new sign that had recently been crafted from stolen Shashidan gold.
On seeing the order, hand-picked centurions stationed on the arena floor quickly exited through
the Gates of Life. When they returned, at first the amazed spectators gasped, then they cheered
as never before when they saw what the centurions carried. From the woven baskets lying in their
arms, the centurions began throwing newly minted sesterces—complete with Vespasian’s
likeness—into the surging crowds.
Smiling, Gracchus Junius sat back in his chair and took another sip of wine. Seated by his side,
Benedik Pryam leaned closer.
“You were right,” Benedik said quietly.
“I usually am,” Gracchus answered. “But even I do not know to which of my recent
accomplishments you refer.”
“I speak of our young charge, of course,” Benedik answered, tilting his head in Vespasian’s
direction. “He truly knows what Ellistium is. It’s the mob, pure and simple. His decrees to lower
taxes and to throw money into the crowd are master strokes. They are sure to love him as never
before.”
Rubbing his chin, Benedik scowled. “Even so, it seems that in some ways we are right back
where we started.”
Gracchus laughed. “If that is what you believe, then you are as blind as you are foolish,” he
replied. “Aside from the total destruction of Shashida, we have gained all that we could have
hoped for. Our treasury is bursting, and the mood of the populace has again swung in our favor.
Rustannica’s ability to finance her war against the Vigors has never been so robust. Our emperor
has accepted his immense gifts and he has proven that he is willing to use them. Even better, he
believes that his terrors have been forever banished.”
As he again turned his attention to the arena, Gracchus plopped a grape into his mouth.
“So you see, my dear Benedik, aside from the arrival of the Jin’Sai on this side of the world, all is
as it should be,” he added. “And given time, even he will be dealt with.”
Hearing the buglers again blow their horns, everyone in the royal box looked toward the arena
floor. On Vespasian’s order, Shashidan skeens were entering the arena. They wore only meager
loincloths and were shackled hand and foot. Each slave carried something across his or her
back, their bodies bent low under the crushing weight. As they were whipped, they staggered
across the arena floor as best they could.
When the crowd realized the nature of the slaves’ burdens, they cheered and stamped so loudly
that they could be heard in the farthest reaches of Ellistium. They were witnessing the ultimate
humiliation, and its savage cleverness endeared their young emperor to them even more.
Across each slave’s back, tied together with stout rope, lay several bars of their own gold,
recently stolen from the Vallesis Majestatis. Sitting back in his ivory chair, Gracchus smiled.
From behind the protection of her gauzy veil, Julia Idaeus wiped away a tear.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ROBERT NEWCOMB is the author of The Destinies of Blood and Stone: Savage Messiah and A
March into Darkness, as well as The Chronicles of Blood and Stone: The Fifth Sorceress, The
Gates of Dawn, and The Scrolls of the Ancients. He lives in Florida with his wife, a
neuropsychologist and novelist. Visit the author’s website at www.robertnewcomb.com.

Rise of the Blood Royal is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the
products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual events,
locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2008 by Robert Newcomb

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing
Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

BALLANTINE and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

Newcomb, Robert
Rise of the blood royal / Robert Newcomb.
p. cm.—(The destinies of blood and stone; v. 3)
eISBN: 978-0-345-50503-3
I. Title.
PS3614.E58R57 2008
813'.6—dc22 2007028495

Map by Russ Charpentier

www.delreybooks.com

v1.5 - Winterborn