He rose from his throne and walked to the altar, where he picked up the once-gigantic book. Then he sauntered over to Wigg and reached through the warp surrounding the lead wizard to deposit the Tome within Wigg’s robe. “There is, however, one more piece of unfinished business,” he whispered nastily.
Ragnar snapped his fingers. Scrounge jumped down from his throne, coming like an obedient dog to his master’s side. From a pocket in his dark brown leather trousers he produced a small silver tube, which he handed to Ragnar.
“Tell me, Wigg, how much do you know about stalker brain fluid?” Ragnar asked. “It’s a fascinating subject all of its own, quite full of riddles and complexities. Did you know, for example, that if enough of it is collected at once, it can be condensed and dried into a powder? And that the older the powder is, the less power it contains?” He slowly opened the top of the silver tube.
Removing the golden dagger from its scabbard at his side, he sprinkled some of the fine, light yellow powder along the length of the blade, holding it to the light of the chandelier.
“This powder is almost three hundred years old,” Ragnar continued. “I have been saving it all this time for you, and you alone. It has taken all of those centuries for it to lose just the right amount of its power. You should feel complimented. Unlike the brain fluid that was placed into the bloodstream of the prince, this powder will not kill you. I do not wish you to die. I do, however, wish for you to suffer, just as I have suffered for centuries.”
He held the shiny blade of the dagger before the Wigg’s face. “Fitting, is it not, that the instrument of this act should be the very same blade that you once used to harm me?” And with that, the stalker blew the powder from the blade directly into Wigg’s eyes.
Wigg screamed and snapped his head back and forth as torrents of pain cascaded through his eyes and into his brain. Long minutes passed, until Wigg let out a final, great scream of torture and his head lolled down onto his chest. Tears of pain and sadness ran down upon his robe, creating dark blotches as they went. Then he groaned softly and fainted.
“You bastards!” Tristan screamed, fighting the warp that held him. “What have you done to him?”
“Why don’t we let him tell you?” Ragnar answered pleasantly. He reached through the warp and began slapping Wigg viciously across the face.
Wigg finally opened his eyes, and Tristan stared in horror. The wizard’s eyes were totally white and lifeless.
“Wigg!” Tristan screamed. “Can you hear me?”
“Yes,” Wigg responded thickly. “But I am quite blind.”
Now it was Tristan’s turn to cry. Trembling with hate, he whispered to both the stalker and the assassin at once, “I swear to the Afterlife, I shall kill you both. By all that I am, I will see you die at my feet.”
Ragnar smiled. “Given your condition, that is quite doubtful. You have unknowingly hit upon one fact, however.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “The Afterlife is more responsible for all of this than you know.
“And now it is time for the two of you to leave us, for my work is done,” he said. “When you wake, you will find yourselves back on the trail leading to the Redoubt. You will find your horses there. During your return you will not be harassed by any of our forces. The Tome will still be in the wizard’s robe.”
Tristan felt the wizard’s warp fall away—and then everything went black.
Ragnar turned to Celeste. “You are dismissed, my dear,” he said. Without a glance at him she left the room, closing the heavy door behind her.
As soon as she was gone, Nicholas emerged from the hallway, coming to hover quietly over the inert body of the prince. He bent to run his smooth, white palm across the face of the Chosen One.
“So this is he who dares to call himself my father,” Nicholas said softly. “The Chosen One, his azure blood now polluted with the brain fluid of a stalker. How fitting. And next to him lies his sightless, quite useless wizard.” He closed his eyes, lifting his head toward the ceiling. “The Chosen One shall soon see who the true parents are.”
He turned to Ragnar. “Call for two of the hatchlings to return them to the trail, as promised. Make sure the Tome goes with them.”
“My lord,” Ragnar whispered back.
With that, Nicholas glided from the room, followed by the blue glow that receded down the hallway and out of sight, like a shimmering wave.
Ragnar and Scrounge bent over to pick up the bodies.
25
“Tristan! Wake up! Drink!”
The urgent words came to the prince’s ears as a distant, hazy sound, growing ever clearer as he regained consciousness. The voice was familiar. A flask of water met his lips, and some of it was poured carefully down his parched throat. He swallowed automatically, greedily. Lying in Wigg’s lap in the dark of night, he finally opened his eyes. What he saw was not comforting.
The wizard’s eyes were still that milky white.
It’s true! Tristan realized, his mind finally clearing. It all really did happen! He sat up, looking around.
“We are safe, at least for the time being,” Wigg said weakly. “The basket of food and drink and even the fire were already here when I came to. It appears Ragnar kept at least part of his promise.”
Finding that some of his lost strength had returned, Tristan tentatively stood. For several moments he carefully surveyed the scene. Their horses stood nearby, tied to a tree. He checked his weapons; they were intact.
They were on the trail to the Redoubt; he recognized the bend just ahead, and the fallen tree lying partly across it. A campfire burned brightly before them, its comforting, wood-laden scent reaching for the sky. Alongside the wizard was a basket of food, with two flasks inside. A soft breeze rustled through the night, and the stars in the dark sky competed for attention with the three magenta moons.
Once convinced that they were alone, Tristan sat down next to the blind wizard. He raised one hand, slowly passing it before Wigg’s face. But there was no reaction; the wizard’s dead, white eyes registered absolutely nothing. And then Wigg spoke.
“Yes, it’s true,” he said. “I am blind.” He paused for a moment, as if trying to find the words. “And I may be so forever.”
Tristan put his hand on the old one’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “Other than your vision, are you all right? Have your powers returned? I hope so. But Wigg, I understand nothing of this. Who is Ragnar? And why does he hate you so much?”
“Ragnar . . .” Wigg sighed. “What happened between us was over three hundred years ago, during the height of the Sorceresses’ War, Long before you were born, and long before we learned of the eventual arrival of you and your sister.” He paused for a moment. “When I first awakened I discovered the flasks, and smelled wine in one of them,” he said. “Would you give me some? I fear that just now I could use it.”
Tristan placed the wine flask into the wizard’s hands. Wigg took a long pull from the opening. “First things first,” he said finally, the wine seeming to fortify him. “How do you feel?”
“I’m better,” Tristan answered, moving a little nearer to the warmth of the fire. He looked to his shoulder; there was absolutely no evidence of what Scrounge had done to him. As was sometimes his habit, he pulled his knees up to his chin, holding them there. “It is as if nothing ever happened to me.”
Oh, but it has, Wigg thought sadly. And it is my fault.
“Other than my vision, I am also well,” the wizard told him. “My powers have not completely returned. But they will certainly have done so by the time we return home—or at least to some semblance of what they once were, considering the continual draining of the stone.” He turned his lifeless, once-beautiful eyes in the direction of the prince. “But right now we should both eat.”