“My poor sweet,” the blood stalker said softly. “There is still so much you do not know. So much that you most probably will never know. But be there you shall, or I shall give you to Scrounge for his amusement. I don’t wish to share you, and I never have, but if that is what it takes to make you obedient, then so be it.”
Tears running down her cheeks, she lowered her head. She had long seen the way Scrounge looked at her, and she cowered at the thought of being made his plaything, as well.
“Very well,” she whispered. “I will do as you say.”
“Of course you will.” Ragnar smiled, his bloodshot eyes and long teeth twinkling in the soft light of the room. “And you always shall. Go to your chambers and put on your finest dress—the green one, I think. You will be called for.”
Without speaking further she walked to the door, then opened it and went through. Smiling, the blood stalker returned to the vial, tasting the fluid. At last he dressed, also donning the golden wizard’s dagger that been owned by Wigg so long ago.
Soon now, Wigg, Ragnar thought to himself. Soon.
“They are close,” Nicholas said softly, his dark blue, uptilted eyes registering a smile. “Both the lead wizard and the Chosen One. I can already feel the pestilence of their blood. I have seen to it that each of them is unconscious, and that fits our needs perfectly.”
Nicholas was wearing his simple white robe, sitting in one of three highly polished marble thrones of the deepest blue. The azure glow radiating from him flooded the stone chamber, overpowering any light from the large oil chandelier hanging from the center of the ceiling. The room was sumptuous, the floor and ceiling of palest green marble.
Ragnar gazed at the young man. Nicholas had grown again since Ragnar had last seen him. He now appeared to be at least fifteen Seasons of New Life. His dark, shiny black hair fell to his shoulders, and his high cheekbones, exotic eyes, and firm jaw were becoming more reminiscent of his parents with each passing day.
Beside him, on a white marble altar, sat the Tome, its pages open.
Why would he bring the book here? Ragnar wondered. Surely he cannot want the wizard and the Chosen One to have it.
“Oh, but I do,” Nicholas said softly. “I wish the wizard and the Chosen One to take the Tome with them. It is, after all, what they came for. It seems the least we can do.” He smiled.
“And for reasons beyond your simple understanding, the Tome is now of more use to us in their hands than in ours,” the young man continued. “Besides, I have already read it. I told you not long ago that I would eventually have need for neither the Tome nor the Paragon, that ridiculous bauble of jewelry they all prize so highly. I already no longer need the book. And soon the stone will have no significance for me, either.”
Ragnar and Scrounge were stunned. They looked at each other and then back at the young man in the throne.
“I do not understand,” Ragnar said. “Will the Tome not help them?”
“Nothing can help them now,” Nicholas answered. “The wheels have been set into motion, and there is no return—for any of us.”
Ragnar turned to look at the great book. Covered with shiny, finely tooled white leather, its pages gilt-edged, the Tome of the Paragon was so enormous that it would have taken at least two strong men to carry it. The weakened wizard and prince would never be able to do it—Ragnar was sure of it. More puzzled than ever, he turned his attention back to Nicholas.
“Do not worry about how they are to carry the Tome back with them,” Nicholas said from his throne. “I will employ a secret method of transportation for the book. Do not be alarmed when this happens. Wigg will surely recognize the incantation for what it is, and believe that it was you who accomplished it. They will be skeptical, of course, that you wish them to have it. But in the end they will take the book—of that you can be sure. I will be in hiding, but within earshot. For I do not yet wish to reveal myself to the Chosen One.” Nicholas’ eyes narrowed; his lips turned up in a sneer. “That will come later, at a more opportune time. But I do wish to hear the voice of the one who dares call himself my father.”
Ragnar stood silently, wondering what the young man had planned.
“Both the wizard and the Chosen One have been bled by my wraiths,” Nicholas added. “Although their strength will eventually return, they will be of no immediate danger to you. In addition, a chalice of the prince’s blood is being brought here with them. It is to be taken to your quarters for safekeeping until such time as I shall call for it.” He lowered his head slightly, leaning forward to look into the stalker’s mutated face. “The azure blood of the Chosen One is of the utmost importance. You are to guard it with your life. Should one drop be spilled, your existence is forfeit. Slowly and painfully.”
“Yes, my lord,” Ragnar said nervously.
Nicholas sat back in his throne. “In addition, there are other things you must know before the arrival of the wizard and the prince,” he went on. “First of all, the hatchlings that bring them here are not like the ones you are accustomed to. These are representative of the second generation of my work, and are capable of both thought and speech. In addition, these hatchlings carry weapons. These are but three of the developing birds you witnessed that day in the catacombs, all of which are now fully mature. They number in the tens of thousands and gather in camps to the north, awaiting my command. Do not be alarmed at the appearance of these three hatchlings, for they are both your allies and your servants.” Ragnar and Scrounge shook their heads in wonder.
Why would he need that many hatchlings, the assassin wondered, when the consuls are so close to being completely taken? And why does he need the consuls at all?
“I need the hatchlings because there is to be a great conflict,” Nicholas whispered, startling the assassin. “In the firmament, as well as upon the land. The Tome ordains it, but makes no mention of its outcome. It is this, coupled with my plans for the Chosen One, that give us the opportunity to reshape the Prophecies to our liking.” He paused for a moment, thinking, his eyes glistening with the power of the craft. “But the reasons for my capture of the consuls are mine, to be revealed to you only at the proper time.”
“My lord, may I ask a question?” Ragnar asked.
Nicholas nodded silently. “You are about to ask me of the azure vein that runs so brightly through the walls of this place, are you not?”
“Yes, my lord,” Ragnar answered.
“To this I will deign to respond, for the wizard Wigg will have already witnessed it, and will no doubt have discerned the answer for himself. The power you see within the vein is coming from the Paragon itself. Its entire dynamism is being transferred to this place, to be stored. It is slowly being imparted into me a little at a time—for even I cannot absorb all of its majesty at once. Think of it, if your feeble mind will allow. The stone, which empowers all of those trained in the craft, is now instilling its power into just one being. Myself. As I once told you, I shall eventually have no need for the Paragon. For the Paragon, as it were, will be inside me. Within my blood, and mine alone.” Nicholas paused for a moment, letting the import of his words sink in.
“This draining of the stone is the reason for my rapidly advancing growth and wisdom,” he continued softly. “My reading of the Tome has enhanced this process, and was one of the reasons I took refuge here, below ground. I will eventually have unquestionable authority over the craft, both the Vigors and the Vagaries, at the same time leaving all the other endowed of Eutracia quite powerless. As this occurs, the stone slowly dies. Wigg will believe Ragnar to be the cause. He will have many questions, some of which it will be to our advantage to answer.