Even though Tristan had not been prepared to hear it, sadly he had to admit that the bereaved man actually made a sort of perverse sense. Had their roles been reversed, Tristan could imagine himself coming to the same conclusion-especially considering all of the false, hateful tales circulating about him. But before he could formulate a reply, Wigg came to stand by his side.
"The truth is that I was trying to turn the orb away from the village, not toward it," the First Wizard said to the crowd, "but I was unsuccessful. If you choose not to believe me, there is little I can do about it. But before you make up your minds, there is something I would like to show you all."
Raising one arm, Wigg pulled back the sleeve of his robe. Despite the spell of accelerated healing he had placed over it, the skin of his arm still looked raw and painful.
"This is my reward for trying to help you," the wizard said, as he held his arm up for all to see. Lowering it again, he placed his hands into the opposite sleeves of his robe. "We must all fight this disaster together if we are to have any hope of succeeding. The rupture of the orb is the greatest threat we have ever faced, including the return of the Coven of Sorceresses."
"But I saw you kill your own father!" a woman shouted at the prince, jumping to her feet. She had two small children by her side. "You can't deny that!" Her voice was nearly hysterical. "I was there! It is said that you carry that very sword to this day!"
Looking down at her, Tristan took a measured step forward. Silence crept over the room. Reaching behind his back, he slowly drew his dreggan. As it left its scabbard, the blade sent its familiar ring through the air.
"Do you mean this one?" he asked.
Then he calmly pushed the hidden button on the hilt that was common to all such Minion swords. He felt the dreggan jump in his hand as its blade immediately shot forward by another foot. Many in the crowd jumped back in their seats.
"Yes," Tristan said. To anyone who knew him well, it was clear that his frustration was beginning to seep through. "This is the sword that I used to kill my father! I admit it. Had I not, the warrior Kluge would have killed your king slowly, hewing him to pieces." Walking still closer to the edge of the dais, the prince looked down at the woman.
"So you tell me," he said. "Given only those two choices, had it been your father's head upon the block, what would you have done?"
Tristan thrust the tip of the blade into the carpeted dais. The sword stood upright before him, swaying gently back and forth. When it slowed, he took another step nearer, he opened his palms, and raised them for all to see.
"Look at my hands!" he shouted. "Do you see these scars? I put them there myself, when I took a blood oath to find my parents' killers and to bring the princess and the Paragon back to Eutracia! If we are to have any hope of surviving both the ruptured orb and those who would use it against us, you must trust the Conclave!"
"And what if we do believe all of your rubbish?" another man yelled. Around him, others had jumped to their feet and were talking with one another in urgent tones.
"We don't trust the craft, and we don't trust your dealings with it!" the man went on. "The craft has brought us nothing but suffering and death, while its practitioners constantly vie for control of it! As far as we know, you may be as bad as these supposed enemies you speak of-or perhaps even worse! And pray, tell us, my lord, with King Nicholas now dead by your own hand, do you profess to be our new sovereign?"
Tristan lowered his head. The title of king was once something he would have done anything to avoid. Now he found that he wanted it with all his heart. He had yet to formally take the oath that would grant him that privilege. Eutracian law stated that until he did so, he would remain prince. For some time he had kept silent about his reasons for waiting. But now he decided that he should reveal his feelings both to his subjects and to the newly formed Conclave.
Beckoning Wigg closer, Tristan walked to the very edge of the platform. When Wigg reached him, Tristan leaned over and whispered into the First Wizard's ear.
A skeptical look came over Wigg's face. "Are you sure about this?" he whispered back.
"Just do it," the prince said under his breath. He held out his right arm.
A small incision formed in Tristan's wrist. Under Wigg's guidance, a single drop of azure blood rose from the wound and hovered in the air.
From beneath his robes, the First Wizard produced a small pewter vial. He opened it and caused a single drop of the red water of the Caves of the Paragon to come floating through the air toward the single drop of Tristan's blood. There was a pause, and then the two raced toward each other and joined. As they did, a hush came over the crowd.
Tristan watched as the combination of fluids twisted and then turned into his glowing azure blood signature. With a swift calculation of the craft, Wigg magnified the blood signature's size, so that everyone in the Chamber of Supplication could see it. As Tristan had hoped, the chamber was now absolutely still.
Speaking quickly into the silence, Tristan went on to explain, in the simplest of terms, what the blood signature was. He told them about how his blood had turned azure the day he defeated the Coven of the Sorceresses. At last he paused and pointed to his blood signature as it twinkled wetly in the soft morning light.
"Rather than controlling the craft, I am as much a prisoner of it as anyone, perhaps even more so," he said. "For until a way can be found to return my blood to its original state, the wizards may not train me in the arts of magic. Nor am I allowed to give the kingdom an heir." A distinct sadness crept over his face.
"One day, I shall take the oath as your sovereign," he finished at last. "But I shall refuse to do so until my blood is whole again and I can be trained in the craft, just as my late father would have been. Not until then will I presume to call myself your king."
With that Tristan dismissed the meeting. As he watched the somber crowd disperse, the remaining members of the Conclave came forward to join him.
He reclaimed his sword from the floor and returned it to its scabbard. Celeste and Shailiha each gave him a reassuring hug. Tristan looked down at Faegan, and then at Wigg.
"Do you think they believed us?" he asked.
"That is difficult to say," Wigg answered. "Some may have, but many certainly did not. They have suffered much and, until we can find a way to heal the orb, may suffer a great deal more. In my more than three centuries, I have never seen the populace more distrustful. Even during the height of the Sorceresses' War they were more trusting. I sense that they would like to believe in you, and that is what is most important. Now that the spark of trust has been rekindled, we must be careful how we fan the flame."
Faegan wheeled his chair a bit closer. "I never had the privilege of knowing your parents," the ancient wizard said in his gravely voice. "But I have no doubt that they would have been proud of what you did here today. At the very least, this is a start. Remember, even the greatest of journeys must always begin with a single step." AT THE VERY BACK OF THE ROOM ONE OF THE MEETING ATTENDEES walked out promptly, well ahead of the other departing subjects. Quickly traversing the palace grounds and striding across the lowered drawbridge, the cloaked figure jumped upon the waiting horse and then wheeled him around.
Gathering her cloak around her, the Gray Fox galloped away, up the narrow street and on toward her next assignation.