“Such a situation, namely our world without the craft, would be disastrous. Especially now,” Wigg said. “As time went on and our knowledge of the stone grew, the Directorate, through its compassionate use of the Vigors, was always able to keep control of the nation. We accomplished this via a monarchy that carefully ruled in the interests of the populace as a whole. Chaos is the natural order of the universe, and without the use of the craft to combat it and keep it in check, it will no doubt return. True anarchy will reign, just as it did during the Sorceresses’ War of three hundred years ago. And this time there will be no Paragon to save us.”
Tristan turned to his sister and saw in her eyes the pain that matched his own. She placed a hand over his, telling him that whatever they must endure, this time they would at least go through it together.
“Do you have any idea who might be responsible for this?” he asked the wizards.
“No,” Faegan said. “That is the maddening part. And now that the country is in chaos and there is a price on your head, going out from the Redoubt in search of the answers is doubly dangerous.”
“Nonetheless, that is exactly what you and I must do,” Wigg said, looking at the prince.
Tristan knew that the wizards must already have something in mind, and he was eager to hear whatever it might be.
“It is imperative that you and I leave at once for the Caves,” Wigg said. “Faegan and Shailiha will remain here, with Joshua and the gnomes. Shannon will accompany us there, to watch our horses, while we are inside. While we are gone, Geldon will continue his travels to the outside, providing those living here with provisions and gleaning whatever information he can. Joshua will also remain here as he continues to recuperate.”
The Caves of the Paragon, Tristan thought to himself. I am finally going back to the Caves.
He could still remember that warm, bright afternoon as if it were yesterday. The day he accidentally discovered the Caves—the day so many questions about his life suddenly came brimming to the surface. He had followed Pilgrim there in the horse’s mad chase of the fliers of the fields. He had accidentally fallen into the Caves, only to awaken in an unknown world of magic and secrecy. To him it was a sacred place, and his heart had ached to return ever since he had first found it, but until this moment, the Caves had been forbidden to him. Now, the thrill of going back made his endowed blood rise in his veins.
“Can you imagine why this is our strategy?” Faegan asked him, distracting Tristan from his memories of the Caves.
Tristan was stymied by Faegan’s question. “I understand the Caves is a place of magic, and our many problems clearly have to do with the craft. But other than that I do not see your reasoning,” he replied honestly.
“Understandable.” Faegan smiled impishly. “Tell me, what have you learned about the blood of the endowed?”
Tristan’s mind went back to another unforgettable day not that long ago. He and Wigg had been in this very room, and Wigg had told him—at last—why he was special. Wigg had also explained that the blood of the endowed was actually a living entity of its own. But until a person was trained in the craft the blood remained dormant, sensitive to the waters of the Caves but unaffected by the Paragon.
Again the prince was without a sufficient answer. “Endowed blood must first be trained to become active. But my blood and Shailiha’s is untrained, and therefore technically dormant,” he replied, “despite my blood being azure instead of red, as a result of my experiences in Parthalon.”
“Correct,” Faegan said. “Now follow that concept, and tell me where it takes you.”
Layers of thought and deed, the prince reflected in frustration. He had no immediate answer, but tried to delve deeper into the mystery of the wizard’s question. And then, after some thought, a kernel of realization came to him. “My sister and I are different,” he finally said, almost to himself.
“Ah,” Faegan said, nodding. “And in what way would that be?”
“We will not be affected by the decay of the stone.”
Faegan smiled. “And why will you not be affected by the decay of the Paragon?” he asked.
“Because we have not been trained in the craft, our blood is still dormant. As such, we have little or no powers. Therefore, unlike you, Joshua, and Wigg, as the stone decays further, Shailiha and I will not sense it.” Pleased with himself, Tristan sat back in his chair. But the wizards were not done with him.
“And?” Wigg asked from across the table, the infamous brow arched up over his right eye.
“And what?” Tristan asked, perplexed.
“And what truth logically follows this fact that you have just told us?”
Tristan cast his mind back through all he had learned recently—and then he came right up against something he was sure he did not want to see.
“You and Faegan are the only two here protected by time enchantments,” he began. “The Paragon is decaying. Therefore, so shall the enchantments. This will gradually leave the two of you subject to both aging and the ravages of disease for the first time in over three hundred years.” He paused, closing his eyes briefly in pain. “But as for the rest of us, other than Joshua’s loss of the craft, we shall feel no change in our lives. For us, things will remain the way they have always been.”
“I thought time enchantments were forever,” Shailiha said quickly. “That’s what they do, isn’t it? Keep the subject free of sickness and aging for all time?”
“An understandable assumption,” Faegan replied, “but incorrect. Consider the following: The time enchantments, like everything else of the craft, rely on the continuous power of the Paragon. As we said before, ours may soon become a world completely without magic. And such a world certainly would not be able to sustain time enchantments.”
Tristan hated seeing the stunned expression on his twin sister’s face. Neither of them had ever seen one of the wizards of the Directorate growing old or becoming ill. It was awful enough that most of the Directorate was now gone, murdered. The thought of watching Wigg and Faegan age and die was almost more than he could bear.
And then he realized what else Wigg had been saying.
“We’re going to retrieve the Tome,” he whispered, barely able to get the words out. The Tome of the Paragon. The giant book that was rumored not only to explain the craft’s many secrets, but to reveal much of Tristan’s future, and the future of his nation. The first volume of the Tome was the Vigors, and was dedicated to explaining the compassionate side of the craft. The second went into the Vagaries, the darker, far more self-serving aspects of magic. The third and last was the Prophecies, or the foretelling—the volume that only he, the Chosen One, was destined to read. “And you are about to begin my training in the craft.” He could feel his blood sing with the prospect.
“Yes,” Wigg said, finally smiling. “It is now time for you. But perhaps beyond time for our nation. Eutracia desperately needs the powers that you will eventually possess. Powers that are fabled to be beyond anything even Faegan or I could ever summon. But time is not on our side. Eutracia needs your training now more than at any other time in her history. Perhaps even more than during the recent return of the Coven. Whatever training we can give you, however slight, may be of great help in augmenting our own power. It is something that we simply cannot afford to delay.” He paused for a moment, the smile on his face disappearing before he continued.
“In our estimation even the Coven, as powerful as they were, could not have accomplished this apparent draining of the stone,” Wigg added. “And if we are truly up against a power of the craft that can perform such a terrible thing, then we are immersed in the depths of something even more deadly than our experiences with the sorceresses.”