Faegan wheeled his chair closer, while Shailiha rose to join her brother. “Are you all right?” she whispered.
Tristan’s first reaction was to realize that his sister was finally free of her torment by the Coven. A new strength and sense of personality radiated from her. It was a look he had not seen since that awful day on the dais, when their whole world had collapsed. Tears started to form in his eyes, and he put his arms around her. Between them, Morganna wriggled slightly.
“They’ve finally done it, haven’t they, Shai?” he asked joyfully. Still holding her by the shoulders, he gently pushed her away from him so that he might look into her face. “You’re finally free?”
“Yes.” She smiled back. “The wizards have cured me.”
He kissed her cheek, bent to kiss Morganna’s downy head, and then turned back to where Faegan and Wigg were intently examining the wounds in the dead man’s head.
“Is this the way you found him?” Faegan asked him bluntly.
“Yes,” Tristan answered, walking over to the two wizards. “He was already dead. The wound in his forehead looks like one from an arrow, but it seems too small for that. As for the missing eye, there is a little more to the story.”
“Such as?” Wigg asked.
Tristan beckoned for everyone to sit down at the table. Then he removed the bloody parchment from his vest, unrolled it, and laid it out so that the others could read it at once. After they had finished, Shailiha looked a little green, and the two wizards became lost within their own respective thoughts. Joshua said nothing. For several moments the only sounds in the room were the crackling of the fireplace and the purring of Faegan’s ever-present cat. Finally, Wigg broke the silence.
“Joshua,” he asked the consul as he pointed to the body on the other side of the room, “did you know this man?”
“No,” Joshua answered sadly. “But he certainly seems to have come to a terrible end.”
Faegan studied the poem closely. “This is more than mere boasting,” he said softly. “This is also a challenge to Tristan to come and find whoever did this. It is clear that someone wants to confront him, and they have begun that process by killing the consuls. Or at least this particular one. This entire act was designed to taunt the prince.”
Tristan removed his dreggan and its baldric from over his right shoulder and hung them on the back of his chair. “And they succeeded,” he said angrily. His face had gone dark. “I do not plan to let this challenge go unheeded. Whoever has done this must pay.”
Shailiha stared at her brother intently, almost as if she were looking at him for the first time. She had never seen him so clearly determined. She had very little memory of her time with the Coven, and before that the brother she had known had been much more carefree and irresponsible. But the Tristan who sat before her now had become a much more focused, mature warrior, and the difference in him impressed her.
He truly is the Chosen One, she realized. But he is still impulsive. And with that, at least, I can be of help. She gently placed one of her hands upon his and said, “Before you do anything, Brother, you need to hear what it is the wizards have to say. Much has happened of which you are still unaware, and it may change your perception of things.”
Seeing the calming effect she had over Tristan, Wigg smiled to himself. He cleared his throat. “Before that,” he said, “I still have some questions. First of all, on a personal note, were the graves undisturbed?”
“Yes,” Tristan answered. He smiled sadly at Shailiha.
“And do you think,” Wigg asked, “that the death of this consul and the appearance of Joshua’s flying creatures are related?”
Tristan reached out to the large, silver pot of morning tea on the table, poured himself a cup, and took a deep draught. He narrowed his eyes in thought for a moment.
“That is impossible to say at this time,” he said at last. “Clearly neither of these acts was random, and both had to do with the consuls. But that does not necessarily mean that they are related.”
“Where did you find him?” Faegan asked.
“At the entrance to the palace,” Tristan answered. “Just in front of the drawbridge.”
Faegan looked at Wigg, the two of them apparently coming to the same conclusion. “Given the existence of the poem, does that tell you anything?” Faegan asked the prince.
Tristan knew they were testing him. “The answer to that is simple,” he said. “First, whoever wrote the poem knows I am back in Eutracia. That was a secret we tried very hard to keep, but it still seems to have leaked out somehow. And second, it is obvious that they believe we are hiding somewhere in the palace, for that is where they placed the dead consul.”
“Precisely,” said Wigg, his right index finger in the air.
“Is there anything else about your little trip to the outside world we should know?” Faegan asked, spearing the prince with his gray-green gaze.
Looking over to Shailiha, Tristan thought for a moment. He briefly considered telling the wizards of the woman he had rescued from suicide, but for reasons even he did not fully understand, he decided not to speak of it. “No,” he said simply. “Nothing of importance.” Shailiha wrinkled up her nose at him, tacitly telling him that she knew better.
She could always tell, he thought happily. She truly is back.
“Very well,” Wigg said, his eyebrow high in the air. He didn’t completely believe Tristan, but he was willing to let it go for the moment.
“There truly is something important you must know,” Faegan began seriously, “and I’m afraid it—”
Just as the wizard managed to garner the prince’s complete attention, a soft knock came upon the door. Tristan reached over his back to draw one of his dirks, then stood and went to the door. He opened it sharply, his knife at the ready.
A very surprised Geldon stood there. With an apologetic smile, Tristan replaced the knife into its quiver, as Wigg beckoned Geldon into one of the vacant chairs.
“Thank you for not killing me, Your Highness,” Geldon said, a touch of sarcasm in his voice. “Begging your pardon, but you need to hear what it is I have to tell you, and you need to hear it now.”
Tristan’s dark eyes took in the expression on the hunchback’s face, and saw clearly that whatever he was about to hear would not please him.
Without speaking, Geldon removed from his shirt the wanted poster for the prince, then unceremoniously flattened it out on the table. As the others read it, Geldon studied the bizarre poem written in the blood of the consul. The color drained from his face. He then saw the dead consul lying on the couch and noticed the neat hole in the man’s forehead and the gaping, empty eye socket. But it was the forehead wound that most interested him.
Standing from his chair and walking closer, he saw the dried, yellow fluid that lay crazily around the edges of the small, perfect wound. He thought of the mysterious letter “S” at the end of the poem. Scrounge! It has to be! He very quietly walked back to his chair and sat down.
Tristan was speechless. Faegan had warned him of this day back in Shadowood. And Kluge, the winged monster he had killed with his own hands, had boasted the same thing as he died in the dirt at Tristan’s feet. The prince closed his eyes, remembering the words Kluge had uttered with his last breath.
“Our struggle is not over, Chosen One,” Kluge had said. “Even in death it shall go on for me. There are still things you do not know, and even if you should somehow return to your homeland you will be a wanted man, hunted day and night because of me, your forever-damaged sister a mere shadow of her former self. No, Galland, your victory over me here today is far from complete. Our battle goes on, even from my grave.”