Suddenly he smiled again. It was a more knowing and somehow more decisive smile—as if his mind was suddenly made up about something.
“But I digress,” he said, almost casually. “I shall not address your first questions—those of the death enchantments and the power of the stone. Those, I’m afraid, you must decipher for yourself. But there is still one thing of the highest importance that I have yet to mention. It would be quite impolite of me not to do so.”
“And that is?” Faegan asked, leaning forward.
“That death itself is not the end, nor is it even the problem,” Joshua answered cryptically. “That it is, truly, only the beginning. Something the master, in his infinite wisdom, will soon demonstrate to you.”
With that, the consul smiled calmly. Then his eyes began to roll up into his head. Reaching into his robes, he produced a long stiletto with a strange-looking, very tiny hook just visible at the end of the blade. Faegan’s eyes widened in realization and he raised his right arm, but even for the master wizard there was not enough time.
Joshua inserted the strange blade deep into his right ear. As blood gushed out, he slammed it in even farther, then gave the blade a sudden, forceful pull. Tristan heard a moist, muffled crack.
The consul was dead before his face hit the bars of his cage.
After everyone’s shock subsided and they verified that Joshua was truly dead, Tristan dragged the body outside the room to be disposed of later, then came back to the somber gathering.
“Why would the consuls revolt?” he asked. “I thought they were bound, heart and soul, to the Brotherhood and the exclusive practice of the Vigors. And how is it that they have somehow been able to circumvent the death enchantments?”
Wigg had been deeply affected by the news of the consul’s betrayal, and tears ran blatantly down his cheeks. Celeste placed an affectionate hand over his, and the lead wizard closed his ancient fingers around it. He seemed unable to speak.
Faegan, however, having had no such long-term relationship with the Brotherhood, remained more pragmatic. “For the same reasons Joshua mentioned, although I believe I can name a few more,” he said quietly. “First, the nation was destroyed by the Minions. The royal family, with the exception of the Chosen Ones, is dead. As is the entire Directorate, save for Wigg. So to whom do the consuls now owe their allegiance, eh? From their perspective, it is apparently up for grabs. For the first time in over three centuries, there is clearly a power vacuum in Eutracia. Second, Nicholas supposedly offers them far greater power than the Directorate would have ever dreamed of doing. This would be a very tempting proposition, especially in light of the fact that there is now no Directorate to punish them for their actions. They may even consider Wigg to be a traitor to the nation, just as the populace at large considers you, Tristan, to be the willing murderer of your father, the king. And then there is the most compelling reason of all.” Faegan sat back in his chair, his face grave.
“And that is?” Celeste asked, her sapphire eyes alive with curiosity.
“The promise of the time enchantments, granting them eternal protection from both disease and old age, and the concurrent circumvention of the death enchantments, finally freeing them to do literally anything they choose,” Faegan said glumly. “A very tempting package for those already partially trained, and still possessing an overriding curiosity about the craft. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Again the wizard paused, measuring his words. “We must therefore assume, at least for the time being, that the Brotherhood of Consuls is now in revolt.” Like the peals of a death knell, his words hung heavy and deep over the table.
“But Joshua has been exposed, and is dead,” Tristan countered, trying to find a gleam of hope. “Surely that is a good thing.”
“Yes,” Wigg answered. “But we are not much better off than before. All we have gained is the fact that the Paragon will not decay so rapidly.”
Shailiha leaned forward, placing her arms on the table. “Joshua talked about the ‘Confluence.’ What is that?”
“The Confluence is mentioned in the Preface to the Tome,” Faegan explained, “and refers to the spell allowing the ‘rebirth,’ if you will, of those who have departed to the Afterlife. It is the concurrent gathering of usually disparate powers that will allow Nicholas to perform his version of the craft, thereby empowering the Gates and the blood of the Heretics locked within them.”
“And what happens then?” Tristan asked.
“It is written in the Tome that the Gates shall literally split open the heavens, releasing the Guild of the Heretics from their bondage in the firmament. The spirits of the Heretics shall then appear, descending from the heavens to come flying through the Gates, passing by their reactivated blood. They will then bond with it, taking on their original, human forms.”
“But if the Heretics can be released, then why are the Ones not released, as well?” Tristan asked.
“Because their blood is not in the marble of the Gates,” Wigg answered. “And is therefore not a part of the Confluence.”
Tristan looked around the table at the dark, defeated faces. Sighing sadly, he turned again to Faegan. “Tell me,” he asked, “why are they called ‘The Gates of Dawn’?”
“The Preface of the Tome states that the activation of the Gates is to take place precisely at dawn,” Faegan answered. “That is the only answer that we have.”
And with that, the room went silent.
45
Tristan stood in the middle of a snowy field some distance north of the royal palace, watching the many individual fires as they roared high into the evening sky. From their hot orange-and-red flames came a sickening odor that brought forth his memories of the destruction of Tammerland. It was the distinctive, unmistakable foulness of burning flesh.
The funeral pyres rose high into the sky, their many levels littered with the mangled and torn corpses of Minion warriors. Tristan had given permission for the pyres to be used, and as their lord he knew he needed to be present at the burnings, to pay his respects to the dead.
There had been many such nights already, and he knew there would be more. For although Faegan had been able to widen the portal, it had not functioned entirely as planned.
It had taken the ancient wizard many hours of study in the Archives to come up with a workable calculation for the enlargement of the vortex, but doing so had drained his mind terribly. Added to this was the fact that his powers were by now very much in decline.
Despite Joshua’s death two weeks earlier, the Paragon was still being drained, albeit at a constant rate. The stone was now almost colorless, and Tristan could easily see that what they had so feared was surely near—a world without magic. Or rather, he reminded himself, a world in which all of the magic had been taken into only one person, intent upon using it to commit an unspeakable act.
Tristan had never seen the usually impish and powerful Faegan so drawn and exhausted, and the prince worried for him. But still the ancient one sat defiantly in his chair each day in the cold, snowy field, holding the portal open for as long as his powers would allow.