“You realize what it is we must do, despite the danger?” Faegan asked finally.
“Yes.” Wigg had known the answer in his heart the second he had first seen the stone. He was immensely glad that Faegan, the rogue wizard who loved riddles and could prove so prankish, was alive and here by his side.
We shall need all of our combined talents to survive this, he thought. And both of the Chosen Ones must be told. For their help in this will be essential.
Saying nothing more, the two wizards left the room. Closing the door quietly behind them, they entered the endless hallways of the Redoubt in search of the prince.
8
As Tristan guided Pilgrim down the narrow, little-used path back to the palace, the sun was just coming up over the horizon. He knew he had to hurry if he was to return before his disappearance was discovered, but a part of him couldn’t resist flaunting the rules of the wizards. And he wanted to see more of the country he should have been ruling over.
Eutracia was in the waning days of the Season of Harvest. The leaves on the trees had long since turned scarlet and orange, and many of them had already fallen to the earth. The cities would normally have been teeming with trade as farmers brought their crops to market and the citizens bought their provisions for the coming cold period. But this season had been particularly harsh, bad weather destroying many of the crops. Coupled with the damage wrought by the Coven and the Minions there was now little to eat. That much they had learned from Geldon. And as the prince had made his way back to the palace this morning he had seen that many fields were indeed barren. His countrymen were starving before his eyes, and there was nothing he could do to help them. The unusually harsh Season of Harvest was a sign that the next period, the Season of Crystal, would be particularly cruel. The thought made him shudder.
Adding to the problem was the fact that Eutracia was geographically isolated on all sides, allowing her no other nation with which to trade easily. Until Tristan and Wigg had learned of the nation named Parthalon that lay across the Sea of Whispers, the entire populace had always thought their nation to be the only civilization in the world. The jagged Tolenka Mountains bordered Eutracia on the northern, western, and southern sides, making a great semicircle of solid granite. A pass through the mountains had never been found.
The Sea of Whispers, the great body of water that lay to the east, had never been successfully crossed by boat until the exile and unexpected return of the Coven. Before this feat, no one had ever sailed farther than a fifteen-day journey and returned home to tell about it. No one in Eutracia even knew why it was named the Sea of Whispers; it just was. The prince had long felt that this great ocean held more than its share of secrets. One day, when his nation was whole again, he would try to discover what they were.
Traax, second in command of the Minions, might know how the warriors had been able to cross the Sea of Whispers, but the Minions of Day and Night were still in Parthalon. The thought of seeing the murderers of his family again, despite the fact that he was now their leader, gave rise to many mixed emotions within his heart. Because of this, his mind usually sheered away from the subject.
Before he entered one of the secret tunnels leading to the Redoubt, he wanted to view the exterior of the palace in the daylight. He wanted to be able to hold the image of his once-happy home in his mind, especially if it became necessary to spend another long period of time in the depths of the Redoubt. But as he finally came to the moat that surrounded the castle, he was dismayed by what he saw.
The very fine, pale gray Ephyran marble of the palace was scorched and destroyed in many places; the once-magnificent stained-glass windows were all smashed. Every sign of the lion and the broadsword, the heraldry of the House of Galland, had been eradicated. The drawbridge was lowered and partially destroyed, making him wonder about its safety. All of the once-beautiful flags of his family crest were gone. In their places flew the banners of the Coven, the symbol of the five-pointed star. Seeing this token made his blood churn with hate, and he did his best to remind himself that the sorceresses were dead, killed by his own hand.
He lowered his head for a moment, trying to comprehend the meaning of the death and destruction that had occurred here. He knew his life would never be the same. And then what was perhaps the most painful memory of all came to revisit him.
Nicholas, his heart whispered. Your firstborn, your heir, lies in a shallow grave in a foreign land. And it is your fault.
After what seemed a long time he finally opened his eyes and raised his face, as if by doing so he would somehow see the palace reborn in all of its previous glory. But of course it was not.
He turned to go, and then stopped, as his eyes focused upon something he had missed before.
Lying near the drawbridge, curled up in shadow, was a naked body. It appeared to be male.
He jumped down from his horse, drew his dreggan, and walked forward slowly, listening and watching as he went. When he finally reached the corpse, he had to swallow back bile.
The man lying on his side was of middle age, with red hair. Tall and athletic-looking, he was clearly dead and had been for some time. The tattoo of the Paragon could be clearly seen on his upper right arm. The prince slowly lowered his sword.
He rolled the body over carefully. When he saw the man’s face the air went out of his lungs. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to regain his composure.
One of the consul’s eyes had been gouged out. A rolled-up parchment, neatly tied with a red ribbon, had been inserted directly into the gaping socket.
Looking more closely, Tristan could discern a second, less-visible insult to the man’s face. There was a very small but deep hole directly in the center of the consul’s forehead. Dried brain matter and blood spattered its edges. The hole appeared to be a wound from an arrow, but it seemed too small.
Refocusing his attention on the bizarre parchment, Tristan reached out and removed it from the dead consul’s eye. The now-empty socket glared silently back at him, almost as if in anger. Tristan stood there for a moment in silence as he held the scroll, wondering whether to read it here or take it directly to the wizards.
Glancing quickly around, the prince saw that he was still alone. He quietly replaced the dreggan into its scabbard, then untied the red ribbon and unrolled the gory parchment. The note seemed to be written in blood. The hideous nature of its words made his endowed blood cry out for vengeance:
His hands shaking with anger, Tristan rolled the parchment back up and replaced the ribbon around it. This murder had been committed in cold blood by someone truly depraved, one who also challenged the prince to the same fate. And killing a consul of the Redoubt could not have been a simple thing.
As Tristan continued to stare down at the dead consul and the scroll, he searched his mind for anyone with the first initial “S” who might want to kill him. Or, for that matter, who would want to kill one of the consuls of the Redoubt. No answers came.
But I will find you, wherever and whoever you are, Tristan promised himself. And you shall not find me such easy prey.
He hoisted the dead consul on his back and walked the body to Pilgrim, then laid it just before the saddle. As he mounted, he scanned the area around him, but saw nothing else of note. Finally he prodded the stallion toward the closest of the secret tunnels leading into the Redoubt.