Caprice’s diaphanous wings gently folded together once, then twice.
“She understands,” the princess said. Raising her arm, Shailiha released the flier into the air. “Good-bye, Caprice,” she said softly. The giant butterfly circled Shailiha’s head, then fluttered down to the others. Five of them separated from the group and then followed Caprice toward the door of black marble, waiting for the wizard to release them into the tunnels.
As Faegan closed his eyes the great door of black marble swung open, and the fliers soared into the passageway. Just as quickly the wizard caused the door to close again, securing the room.
After a moment Shailiha turned to him, the concern plainly showing upon her face. “Will Tristan and Wigg be all right?” she asked hesitantly.
Faegan smiled, trying to raise her spirits. “Do not underestimate them. They are two particularly capable individuals, especially together. They went through much to find you and bring you back—more than you will probably ever know. If they did that, they can certainly negotiate their way home.” He reached up to give both her hands a comforting squeeze, and she finally let go a little smile. Turning back to the atrium, the wizard looked down to the remaining butterflies as they careened about the room.
Unless they are both already dead, he thought.
24
There was something cold and hard against Tristan’s right cheek. He was lying on one side, and he squirmed a bit, trying to become more comfortable. All he wanted to do was sleep.
Then his tired, blood-deprived brain slowly began to work again, bringing him around, and he gingerly opened his eyes. His vision was crazily skewed, the vertical having traded places with the horizontal. As a result, nothing in the room was where it should have been.
And then he remembered the ghoulish consuls. With that also returned the memories of the wraiths and hatchlings. Then he and Wigg had been carried out over the azure, impossible sea.
Slowly, warily, he sat up, looking around. The room he was in was very large, with three dark blue marble thrones against one wall, the center one higher than the others. Perched on the right-hand arm of the center throne was a glass vial that contained some kind of yellow fluid. Chairs, tables, patterned rugs, and artwork tastefully adorned the room. The pale green marble of the walls, floor, and ceiling was of the finest quality. A huge oil chandelier hung from the center of the ceiling, giving off a soft, subdued light. Then, what he saw to the left of the thrones caused his jaw to drop in admiration. The Tome of the Paragon! his hazy mind told him. It has to be!
It lay on a white marble altar, its pages open. A white light shone down upon it from above.
The Tome was huge—far greater in size than Tristan had ever imagined it to be. At least a meter long and an equal distance in width, it was also at least half a meter thick. From his vantage point the prince could not see the tops of the pages, or the writing upon them. But he somehow knew that the words contained there would be tightly packed, with no wasted space. It was absolutely magnificent.
But how did Wigg expect them to remove it from the Caves and carry it all the way back to the Redoubt? he wondered. It looked as if it would take at least two strong men just to lift it.
Testing the weight across his right shoulder, he could tell that he still had all of his weapons. He tried to stand, but clumsily fell back to the marble floor, ending up half kneeling, half sitting. The cut was still there in his left boot, he noticed, and his foot still itched from the incantation of accelerated healing the wraith had placed upon him. He felt a cold sweat break out along the length of his brow.
It wasn’t a dream.
He looked around for Wigg. The wizard lay curled up on the floor a little way from him. He appeared to be unconscious. Tristan crawled to the old one and tried to shake him awake. It did no good. Finally the prince began slapping the wizard across the face. Eventually Wigg slowly opened his eyes, and his breathing quickened. Tristan helped him to sit up.
“Where are we?” Wigg asked weakly. His aquamarine eyes were dim, his speech slurred.
“I don’t know,” Tristan answered. “Do you remember being bled by the wraiths?”
“Yes,” Wigg said thickly.
“Are you in possession of your powers?” the prince asked anxiously.
Wigg closed his eyes for a moment, his face becoming dark. “They are minimal, at best,” he answered sadly. “The loss of blood has been too great.”
With some difficulty Tristan reached behind his right shoulder, taking one of his dirks into his hand. Knowing full well that he would never be able to handle the heavy dreggan, it was the only thing he could think of. He slid the throwing knife into the pocket of his trousers.
“They bled me also,” he said. “They kept a portion of my blood, handing it to three hatchlings for safekeeping. I don’t know why. Nothing makes sense here. And the hatchlings were not the same as the ones we saw before. They had arms and hands, and wore weapons. At least one of them could even speak. They picked us up and flew us across the sea.”
“Can you stand?” Wigg asked.
“Not on my own. But perhaps we can help each other,” Tristan answered.
The two of them struggled to their knees, each using the other for support. They finally stood upright on trembling legs in the center of the strange room.
“Welcome, Wigg and Chosen One,” a deep, male voice suddenly said. “I have been waiting for you a very long time. Three hundred years, in fact.”
Tristan and Wigg looked up to see someone standing on the other side of the room who had not been there before. His back was turned to them, and he wore a shiny, black, hooded robe. It was gathered at the waist by a golden belt, from which hung some kind of weapon. Looking closer, the prince could see that the back of the man’s head was misshapen and bald; the grotesque, dangling earlobes were exceptionally long. The shiny skin of his head glistened eerily beneath the light of the chandelier.
From this angle he almost looks like a blood stalker, Tristan thought. But blood stalkers cannot speak. Reaching slowly into the pocket of his trousers, he ran his thumb along the blade of the dirk.
For the first time Tristan noticed the doorway in the right-hand wall near the thrones. And from that there came a glow—the most magnificent evidence of the craft he had ever seen. A chill ran up his spine.
Like a dense fog, the azure glow crept out of the hallway and across the floor of the chamber. Its power and density were such that he felt certain he could hold it in his hands.
“Wigg, lead wizard of the former Directorate,” the strange-looking man suddenly said. “King maker, and protector of the Paragon. Onetime husband of Failee, the dear, departed first mistress of the Coven of sorceresses. And Prince Tristan, the male of the Chosen Ones. For whom the Directorate waited so long. Brash, impulsive, and said to possess the highest quality of endowed blood the world has ever known. Or ever will. However, despite his magnificent blood he is yet to be trained in the ways of the craft. How frustrating that must be. Nonetheless, welcome to you both. It is indeed an honor to be in the presence of such important guests.” The man had still not turned around.