“Who are you?” Wigg shouted. “I demand to know why we are here!” He took a weak step forward.
Slowly, the man in the black robe turned around. Seeing the thing’s face, Tristan thought he might be ill. He heard the breath leave Wigg’s lungs in a rush, and he whirled to see the blood draining from his friend’s face.
“Ragnar,” Wigg finally breathed. “You’re alive! This cannot be . . .”
The wizard clearly had no more words and just stood there, speechless before the monster in the black robe.
Tristan looked more closely at Ragnar. The shiny, bald head was elongated; the eyes were gray and bloodshot. Two long fangs ran down from the top row of teeth, overlapping the lower lip. An angry, oozing, unhealed wound could be seen in the right temple of his head, and his eyes glistened back at them with a madness that was clearly, sickeningly evident. A beautiful golden dagger hung from the belt at his left hip, contrasting sharply with the shiny black robe. He was an odd combination of both human and blood stalker, and the effect was chilling.
Walking away from them, the one called Ragnar turned and sat in the center throne.
“So many questions, aren’t there, Wigg?” he asked sarcastically, settling himself into the great marble chair. “But before we begin, there are two others here I should like you to meet. First of all, my servant. Someone I believe the prince will be especially eager to see.”
Tristan felt his blood rise as Scrounge sauntered into the room, the silver spurs on his boots ringing out loudly upon the marble floor. Once seated on the throne at Ragnar’s left, he smirked nastily at Tristan. Remembering what Geldon had told them, the prince looked carefully at the tips of the arrows in the crossbow strapped to the man’s right forearm. They were stained in yellow.
Tristan remembered the dead consul he had found outside the palace, and the parchment scroll so violently placed into the empty eye socket, containing the taunting, sick note the assassin had written in the victim’s own blood. Tristan continued to stroke the blade of his hidden knife with his thumb.
I beg the Afterlife, he pleaded silently, just give me one clear chance.
“And now,” Ragnar suddenly said, “for the finest prize of all. Please come in, my sweet, and meet our guests.”
A woman walked into the room wearing an emerald green, floor-length gown.
“I present to you my . . . companion,” Ragnar said slyly. “This is Celeste.” He nodded, and slowly, gracefully, the woman turned.
Tristan froze, his heart racing wildly. The woman standing before him was the mysterious beauty he had rescued from suicide that night on the cliffs.
Her clothing was different, but it was the same woman. Of that there was no doubt. He took in the long, red hair that swooped down over the forehead, the brilliant, sapphire eyes almost hidden beneath it, and the hint of the cleft in her strong chin. His mind raced, searching for answers.
She’s one of them, he realized. She must be. But why was she on the cliffs that night?
After looking first to the wizard, Celeste finally turned her eyes toward the prince. The color drained from her face, and her lovely red mouth opened partially in disbelief. Recomposing herself, though, she narrowed her eyes and very minutely shook her head once, indicating that she did not want him to speak of their previous meeting. Tristan gave a small nod of agreement. What is going on here? He looked away as Celeste seated herself on Ragnar’s right.
A centuries-old hate evident in his eyes, Ragnar looked at Wigg. “So tell me, Lead Wizard,” he asked sarcastically, “how does it feel to see me, your old friend, after all these years? I observe that you no longer have your wizard’s tail. No matter. The Directorate is no more, anyway. It is my understanding that Failee herself took your tail from you. How appropriately disgraceful.”
Wigg at last collected his thoughts.
“How is it that you live?” he demanded weakly of the blood stalker. “You were never granted time enchantments, because your transformation by the Coven happened before the enchantments were ever developed! You should be dead!”
“Oh, but I was granted the enchantments.” Ragnar smiled. “And by someone you knew well. I have been waiting all of that time, here within these caves. Be that as it may, I am anxious to complete my business with you.”
“And what would that business be?” Wigg asked.
“Several things, actually,” Ragnar responded. “Not the least of which is to give you what you came for.”
Wigg again seemed stunned, but recovered quickly. “And that is?” he asked skeptically.
“Why the Tome, of course,” Ragnar said. He dipped his right index finger into the vial of yellow fluid. Placing the fingertip into his mouth he closed his eyes for a moment, smiling again before reopening them. Tristan’s sensibilities recoiled at the brazen vulgarity of it.
The three individuals in their thrones stared down on the prince and the wizard as the amazing radiance continued to flood the marble floor of the room. Tristan looked with hate into the ratlike eyes of Scrounge, and the assassin shot back an unafraid glare that each of them understood well. After a time, Wigg spoke again.
“You’re addicted, aren’t you?” he asked. “Tretiak and I believed that might happen. Especially if you survived long enough.”
Addicted? Tristan asked himself. What in the name of the Afterlife is Wigg talking about?
“Of course I am addicted, you conceited bastard!” Ragnar hissed back. “You had to realize that I would be! And still you did nothing! Not a single search party sent out to come and look for me!” He finally collected himself, settling back into his chair. “But all of that will be paid for in full today,” he said more softly.
“We were unaware at the time you would become addicted. We had no way to know,” Wigg said sadly, taking a step forward. With the wizard’s unexpected movement, Scrounge raised the miniature crossbow slightly. Tristan curled his fingers around the knife in his pocket. This will happen yet today, he thought.
“It was only later, as our knowledge of the craft grew, that we realized what we had done,” Wigg continued. “You must also know that the ingestion of your own brain fluid was an accident! Tretiak and I were only trying to help you!”
His eyes turned to the golden dagger on Ragnar’s belt. “That’s mine, isn’t it?” he asked solemnly.
“Yes,” the blood stalker sneered, slowly sliding the blade from the scabbard. He held it to the light of the chandelier. “ ‘In Brotherhood We Serve the Vigors,’ ” he quoted sarcastically. “A truly ridiculous concept. Had you ever been properly exposed to the Vagaries, you would know that the drivel of the Vigors is not only less powerful, but quite insipid as well.”
Tristan had suddenly endured quite enough of listening and doing nothing. “Why do you want my blood?” he shouted at the stalker. “And who are the wraiths?”
Ragnar smiled. “The wraiths are only several of an entire host of servants. Why I have need for the blood of the Chosen One will be revealed to you at a later time. For now, suffice it to say that you will find it very interesting.”
“The ghoul-like consuls and the hatchlings,” Tristan hissed. “I suppose they are simply more of your followers?”
“Not followers, exactly.” Ragnar smiled, pursing his lips in thought. “More like servants. The consuls you fought with and killed are simply those that were ‘left over,’ so to speak. They are the ones who initially resisted me, so I turned them into what you saw there in the Caves. They are now relatively mindless, but still have their uses. You also might be interested to know that the second generation of hatchlings, those which carry weapons and can speak, now number in the tens of thousands and are already camped here in your beloved Eutracia. To the north, in the fields of Farplain. They will also prove to be extremely useful.”