“I wish them to take us to the Recluse,” Geldon said. He turned to the consul, seeing distinct horror on the younger man’s face. It was obvious that Joshua did not like this idea at all.
“Uh, er, isn’t there any other way to do this?” the consul stammered. “Can’t we just ride horses to the Recluse?”
“Look around you,” Geldon said impatiently, “and tell me how many horses you see here. Given the fact that they can fly, the Minions have very little use for them. Besides, it is a hard two-hour ride with horses. The other choice is a long four-day walk. So which do you prefer, eh? The walk of several days, or a free ride of only several moments?” Confident that his logic was inescapable, he stood defiantly before the apprehensive consul.
“There is another reason one should not travel across this land on foot,” Rufus said, a serious look darkening his face.
“And that would be?” Geldon asked.
“I think it better that you ask Commander Traax that question,” Rufus answered cryptically.
Geldon wondered what the Minion officer wasn’t telling him, but decided not to make an issue of it. Climbing aboard one of the empty litters, he beckoned the fearful consul to enter the other.
“Is there anything you would like me to tell Traax?” Geldon asked as he grasped the sides of the litter.
He heard Rufus let out a great belly laugh. Turning, Geldon saw that Joshua was only holding onto the litter with one hand, desperately covering both his eyes with the other.
“Just that it has been a most interesting morning,” Rufus shouted back.
That is something I can certainly agree with, Geldon thought as the litters began to ascend.
In mere moments, they were aloft.
14
The rose-colored light from the three Eutracian moons shone down brightly on the riders as they made their way along the narrow, familiar trail. They were heading up into the hills of the Hartwick Woods. The night was cold. The dew upon the fallen leaves and grasses of the forest floor had crystallized; the horses’ hooves crunched quietly down into the twinkling, silver prisms of water and light. The pine-scent somehow cleansed everything in that strange, yet familiar way only it could. These woods seemed to be the catalyst for so much that had happened in his life, Tristan mused. There was magic here. He could always feel its presence in this place as he could in no other—except, perhaps, the Caves. He drew a breath, reminding himself that the peaceful scene before him clearly belied the sad state of his beleaguered nation.
The prince, Shannon, and the wizard had taken consuls’ robes with them to fend off the cold and to disguise themselves should they encounter anyone upon the same path. But the likelihood of such a thing was not great. Tristan had therefore, to the intense but blessedly silent scowling of Wigg, removed his robe and tied it to the back of his saddle. He had no intention of not being able to reach for either his dreggan or his dirks—especially in light of the terrible news he had received regarding his status as a wanted man.
The three of them had spoken little since their departure from the Redoubt. Except for Shannon, of course, who seemed even more talkative than usual. Tristan knew that this was because the little man was frightened, and he really couldn’t blame him. But he would have preferred that the gnome be quieter. Shannon occasionally drank from his ever-present ale jug, raising objections from Wigg, who had never approved of the gnomes.
Perhaps Wigg could be distracted. Tristan spurred Pilgrim a little to come up alongside the wizard’s mare, just out of earshot of the gnome.
Turning to look at the lead wizard’s craggy profile, Tristan asked, “Wigg, may I ask you a personal question?”
Wigg did not look at him, instead keeping his attention directed into the darkness that lay before them. Tristan knew that the wizard would be trying to stay alert for the presence of endowed blood, such as that of a stalker.
“Given your impulsive nature, the asking is guaranteed,” Wigg replied calmly. “The answering, however, is not. Especially when the question is of a personal nature.”
Tristan thought to himself for a moment.
“How was it that you first met Failee?” he asked courteously, half holding his breath as he wondered whether the old one would answer him. He had been shocked to his very core to learn that Failee, first mistress of the Coven, had at one time been Wigg’s wife. There had never been any inkling of this fact until finally reaching Parthalon and bringing back Shailiha and the Paragon. And Wigg had never spoken of it since.
Wigg took a very long stream of evening air in through his nostrils, finally letting it out slowly. Tristan could virtually feel the wizard’s consciousness flowing back through three hundred years of time as the old one sorted through the kaleidoscope of his memories.
“That was a long time ago,” Wigg began, “and things were much different then. Eutracia was not as she is now—or should I say, the way she was before the reappearance of the Coven. Magic was still in its infancy, for we had not yet found the Caves, the Paragon, or the Tome. Women were allowed to learn the craft. For the most part an equal, if not always harmonious relationship between the genders had been struck regarding the use of magic. Unfortunately, however, it did not last. The balance of power went briefly to the women, just as Failee started her revolution.”
“What do you mean?” Tristan asked.
“What I mean is there was no monarchy, no Royal Guard, and very few formal laws. Birth records were not kept. Marriages were often prearranged. As you can imagine, this often added to the resentment some of the people felt—especially the young endowed. I can’t say I blame them. Arranged marriages are a barbaric custom, one that was outlawed after the war.” He paused for a moment, shifting slightly in his saddle and gathering his thoughts.
“Anyway,” he continued, “as I said, the Paragon had yet to be discovered. Still, what magic there was ruled the land, not law. It was vitally important that no faction of endowed blood gain a stranglehold over any other. That is why the monarchy was created, and why the wizards eventually imposed the death enchantments upon themselves, to keep them from practicing the Vagaries. In this manner the sovereign would not need to concern himself that the hunger for total power would again erupt among the endowed. We could no longer take that chance after the sorceresses’ failed civil war.” Wigg pursed his lips in thought for a moment.
“However,” he added, “the newly formed Directorate, no matter how brilliant its members eventually proved to be, was not without its mistakes. I now believe that our prohibition against women being trained in the craft was an unnecessary, gender-driven overreaction to the agonies of the war. But, for right or wrong, the custom was ultimately accepted.”
Tristan thought for a moment. “That’s how you and Failee met, isn’t it?” he asked quietly. “Your marriage was arranged.”
“Yes.” The wizard sighed, smiling slightly. “Failee’s blood was very highly endowed, as is mine, of course. She was beautiful and brilliant. But then her madness set in, and she began to turn. She left me and founded the group of sorceresses who ultimately chose the Vagaries as their weapon, and would later lay such waste to the land.”
Tristan vividly remembered Failee. She truly had been a beauty, just as Wigg said, with an hourglass figure and deeply lustrous, hazel eyes. He could easily understand the attraction the young wizard of the time would have felt for her, arranged marriage or not.
“And there were no children,” Tristan said softly.
“No, there were not,” Wigg replied rather sadly. “We were not together very long. After the war, I often wondered if she had been purposely keeping herself barren. Perhaps it was the madness, or perhaps she had come to hate me so much that she couldn’t bear the thought of ever having my child. I suppose I will never truly know. Like so many things of those days, the dust now lies so deep upon my memories that it is difficult to see things for what they really were.”