Tristan froze, not knowing what to say. At long last here it is, he thought frantically. He reminded himself that he must never show weakness or a lack of knowledge, especially at this stage. He needed to get the answer without revealing to the Minion that he did not know what it was. He turned to Ox. Having been part of the force that invaded Tammerland, the giant Minion must also know—yet in their great concern for their many other problems, they had not thought to ask him. Tristan saw a hint of concern creep into the corners of Ox’s large, dark eyes. This has to do with the craft, he realized. For nothing else of this world gives pause to a Minion warrior.
“I forced the Coven to reveal the secret of crossing before I killed them all,” Tristan finally said with hardness in his voice, hoping desperately that the Minion would accept the lie. “We must make allowances for the increased degree of difficulty, of course. I know you yourself have crossed, for you were upon the dais in Tammerland that day.” He paused, his jaw hardening. “The day my family and the Directorate of Wizards were all murdered.”
Traax took a long, deep breath, leveling a clearly remorseless gaze at Tristan. “I follow my orders to the letter,” he said sternly, quietly. “No matter who my lord may be at the time. Do you think my great numbers could not have crushed you and your wizard that day in the courtyard when you killed Kluge? But usurping one’s lord in unfair battle is not the Minion way. It is something you shall be quite glad of when we finally arrive again upon your shores.”
Tristan stiffened at the tone in Traax’s voice, but at the same time he knew the warrior was only telling the truth. Tristan was coming to have more than a modicum of respect for the intelligent, clean-shaven Minion sitting before him.
“Tell me your version of the crossing,” Tristan said, finally using his ploy. “I wish to see whether the Coven lied to me.”
Traax nodded, Tristan’s bluff having apparently worked for the moment. “At fifteen days into the voyage, the ships enter a ‘dead zone.’ By this I mean that there is suddenly no wind for the sails, and the sea becomes smooth as glass. The air is so cold that one can see his breath. Then a thick fog coalesces into the shape of two hands, gripping both the bow and stern of the ship, holding it in place. Voices come from faces in the water, demanding the forty dead bodies. We throw them over, and they are consumed. Only then do the Necrophagians, the Eaters of the Dead, allow us to pass.” He paused for a moment, thinking.
“We will, of course, require forty dead bodies. And, as you know, they must be fresh,” Traax added. “If my lord would allow it, I am sure we could easily arrange for a session of training to the death on board, just before entering the dead zone. This could easily result in the required number of fresh corpses.” He paused again, a look of concern growing on his face. “All of this assumes, of course, that the Necrophagians will honor the bargain despite the fact that the sorceresses are not aboard, much less still living.”
Tristan sat back, trying not to appear horrified by Traax’s story. Necrophagians . . . the Eaters of the Dead. He had to find a way to corroborate the bizarre tale—and the one person in this land he was so far willing to trust was Ox. He turned to the huge Minion by his side. “Is this the way you remember it?” he asked.
“Yes, Chosen One,” Ox said.
Tristan nodded. “Then either my wizards shall deal with the Necrophagians, or we shall not cross by sea. One way or another, we shall find a solution.”
Traax gave the prince a strange look.
“Is there something else?” Tristan asked him. “Something you don’t understand?”
“Forgive me, my lord, but this is something I must ask,” Traax replied. “Are you ill?”
Tristan stiffened. “Why do you ask?” he answered as casually as possible.
“The veins in your arm,” Traax said. “They look inflamed. Have you been injured?”
“A battle wound, nothing more,” Tristan lied. “My wizards have already begun the healing process. I shall be by your side when the time comes.”
He stood from the table, indicating that Ox and Traax should follow suit. Each of them replaced their dreggans into their scabbards. Tristan turned to Traax. “Do you understand your orders?”
Traax clicked the heels of his boots together. “Yes, my lord,” he answered quickly. Together the three of them walked outside, reentering the coliseum.
“Is there anything else you require, my lord?” Traax asked. “Will you be staying the night?”
“No,” Tristan answered. “We must go back.” With a sense of finality, he looked at the stars. “I ordered my wizard to briefly open the portal each hour until my return. We shall walk to the place at which we first arrived. Our wait will not be long.”
“In that case I shall go to the Recluse, and begin informing the legions of the upcoming campaign,” Traax said. He smiled again. “They will be most happy to hear of it. I shall see you in Eutracia, in five days’ time.”
“Five days,” Tristan repeated. In a final gesture of good faith, he held out his right hand. Traax extended his, as well. With a strong slap, each man firmly grasped the inner side of the other’s forearm. The pact had been made. With that Traax again clicked his heels, then walked away.
Tristan and Ox left the hauntingly beautiful, moon-shadowed Proscenium. The fresh Parthalonian snow crunching beneath their feet, they returned to the spot in which they had arrived. In the near distance the partially rebuilt Recluse shone brightly from the many torches surrounding it, just as it had during the days of the Coven. Suddenly, from the area of the castle came the sound of great cheering and yelling.
His breath leaving his lungs in frosty clouds, Tristan looked to the stars, and to the three rose-colored moons that bathed the twinkling, snowy ground with their crimson hue. He gathered his coat around him and remained that way for some time, thinking of his many loved ones who had died at Minion hands. Ox stood silently by his side, as if the huge warrior had been doing so all of his life.
May the Afterlife grant me the peace to know that what I have done is right.
41
Wigg sat quietly at the rather large table. He had his doubts concerning what Faegan was about to do, but he had finally agreed to it. Faegan sat nearby in his chair on wheels. In his hands he held an oddly shaped glass beaker, its liquid contents glowing brightly with the power of the craft.
Tristan and Ox had not yet returned from Parthalon, but each of the wizards knew it was still too early to be concerned. Shailiha was sleeping safely in her bedroom. The rest of those who lived here in the Redoubt were quietly going about their duties.
The two wizards sat alone in the antechamber that protected the Well of the Redoubt. Several days before, they had removed the stone from around Faegan’s neck and placed it beneath the continually running waters of the Well, hoping that might help protect the stone. That act should also have caused everyone of the craft to lose their gifts, but to their amazement, that didn’t happen. Not only did they all keep their gifts, but the decay of the stone went on unabated.
Wigg and Faegan had just come from checking on the stone. The Paragon losing its color—and at a strangely accelerating rate. To an untrained eye, the loss of color in the Paragon would have appeared fairly constant. But not to someone as highly trained as Faegan. This had set the curious master wizard to thinking. As a result he had come to view the entire problem of the fading jewel in a potentially new light.
A murky light, he thought as he sat there in his chair, holding the odd beaker he had brought with him. But not one without possibilities in the darkness of our troubles.