Perhaps he had promised her too much, he suddenly realized. He gave a quick, derisive laugh. Too much or not, he was sure that taking her and Scars before the crusty, indomitable wizards would be worth it.
But despite how badly he wanted to get home, he had swiftly come to love the sea, complete with all of its whims and dangers. After Scars had finally come to the conclusion that Tristan was indeed not one of the enemy, he and the prince had arrived at an uneasy truce. The surprisingly eloquent giant had taken him under his wing, instructing him in the ways of the great boat. Tristan had certainly not become a seasoned crewmember, but he was fascinated by what Scars was teaching him; and each day he found himself eager to learn more.
He now understood the differences between the various sails, spars, and booms, and how the rigging and sheets worked to help steady them and raise and lower the sails. He had learned the various types of maneuvers the ship was capable of, such as running before the wind, tacking, and being in irons. Tristan had even gingerly climbed the rigging all the way to the crow's nest, to gaze out over the ocean and feel the splendid, exaggerated motion of the ship as she pitched and rolled beneath him, dozens of meters below. Seeing his battle flag flying high atop the mainmast had done his heart good.
To his great surprise, Scars had suggested that Tristan take the ship's wheel for a time-under the giant's watchful eye, of course. If what Tyranny had told him was true, it was the same wheel that had once steered the Resolve, the vessel Wigg had used more than three centuries earlier to banish the Coven of sorceresses from Eutracia. As Tristan had placed his hands on the worn, curved grips that graced the wheel's outer ring, he almost thought he could feel the gnarled, ghostly hands of those who had gone before, turning it with him. Sensing the great ship obey him had been an experience he would never forget.
He had found a small plaque mounted below the wheel. On it was inscribed the name of every single person who had commanded the various vessels the wheel had served over the course of the centuries. Toward the top, he had seen Wigg's name. And the last name was Tyranny's. Smiling, Tristan shook his head and wondered how many other names would be added to the plaque before the wheel was finally lost to the sea or otherwise destroyed. He found himself hoping that would never happen.
Turning to look toward the bow, he felt the sharp, pulling sting of the whip marks across his back. They were healing, but they still hurt. He knew that when he returned to the palace, the wizards would gladly enact an incantation of accelerated healing over them, and they would soon mend. But in truth he had to admit that it was neither the vicious beating by the demonslaver nor the healed scars that would forever remain on his back that now plagued him so.
There had recently come to him a new, unexpected form of mental, rather than physical anguish. It was something that had been building inexorably in his soul ever since that fateful day in Parthalon when his blood had suddenly turned from red to azure. It was a foreign, insidious feeling, and one that had finally come to fruition for him not only at the savage whipping, but when Tyranny had pulled him out of the ragged line of slaves to speak to him.
As the contradictory, rather frightening thought went through his mind, he closed his dark blue eyes for a moment. The unthinkable had happened.
He was coming to curse his glowing, azure blood.
He was not distressed by the fact that his blood was endowed. That much of it was his natural heritage, his birthright. But that his blood now glowed, that it had turned the same color that always accompanied any significant use of the craft, was just too bizarre.
His azure blood kept him from learning the craft, because the wizards were concerned with the unknown ramifications of such a thing, should they try to instruct him. That angered and frustrated him, for his desire to learn burned within him as hotly as ever. Even the Tome, the great book of magic, stated that the male of the Chosen Ones must be trained, so that he could attempt to join the Vigors and the Vagaries together into a single art, thereby putting an end to the eons-old conflict between the two sides of the craft. But as things stood now, even Wigg and Faegan were at a loss over what to do. And with all of the problems that had been thrust upon them since the unexpected return of the Coven, using valuable time to begin his training had clearly been out of the question. Worst of all, he felt guilty because he was no closer to fulfilling his destiny, as the Tome said he must.
Sometimes his unique blood made him feel very isolated. Every time he was wounded, no matter how slight the insult to his body, if his blood was drawn, his enemies would be able to recognize him immediately. They wouldn't even need to examine his blood signature to know who he was, for the color of his blood would tell it all. Then he remembered Faegan's warning, spoken that night in his mansion in Shadowood, not so long ago.
"Although it does not say how, the second volume of the Tome affirms that he may be forever, inalterably changed. You must be on the lookout for this change, whatever it is to be."
And his own silent vow: "I will not rest until I have discovered who has poured such endowed blood into my veins, and why. I shall know why I have become the vessel that contains the blood of the fates…"
He stared out over the sea, yearning for home, for the company of his sister and his friends-and especially for Celeste. He had fallen deeply in love with the beautiful, red-haired daughter of the lead wizard, and he knew it. But he also knew her psyche wasn't ready to accept his affection on that level, and he had no choice other than to accept it. He could only wait, hoping that one day they could be truly together.
Engrossed as he was in his thoughts, he didn't hear Tyranny's footsteps until she came to a stop directly alongside him. Smiling slightly, she laced her fingers together and leaned her forearms on the rail.
"Tell me about her," she said simply.
"Tell you about who?" he asked.
Tyranny responded with a wry, knowing smile. "Don't be coy," she replied. "It doesn't suit you. You're the straightforward type, just like me. Besides, you forget that I have been sailing these waters in the company of men for the majority of my life. I know their every mood, and the expressions and gestures that go along with them. You miss someone special. A woman-I'm sure of it. And you miss her very much, but not in the same way you miss your sister, the princess. After some of the interesting things you have told me about yourself, I must admit that I'm curious about the kind of woman it takes to hold your heart." She looked around, then conspiratorially lowered her voice. "So tell me, crown prince of all of Eutracia, what is she like?"
Smiling and shaking his head, Tristan looked back out to sea. "It's a long story," he answered honestly. "Three hundred years in the making, in fact. Which also happens to be how old she is."
Turning back, he looked into Tyranny's wide, blue eyes and watched as the wind moved through her haphazardly cut hair. It was the first time since knowing her that he had seen real surprise cross her face. True to form, however, she recovered quickly.
"My, but you do like them mature, don't you?" she teased. Then her expression softened a bit. "Still, it's nice to have someone who wants to share the same rainbow's end, isn't it?"
Before Tristan could frame an answer, they heard the unmistakable peal of the warning bell high in the crow's nest.
Drawing her sword, Tyranny looked up to see one of her crew already climbing the rigging. Scars appeared by her side, and only moments later, the crewman who had scaled the rigging was back again.
"Screechlings!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. "Three separate maelstroms of them, about to rise no more than half a league off the bow!"
Confused, Tristan followed Tyranny and Scars as they ran frantically forward. Standing with them at the bow, Tristan could just make out three huge, dark circles that seemed to lie atop the waves. His first thought was that at last he was seeing the legendary Necrophagians-the monsters that made the Sea of Whispers impassable to all but those who were willing to make the necessary sacrifice. But something about what he saw told him that was not the case. Perplexed, he turned to Tyranny. She stood still, brandishing her sword with one hand, holding her spyglass to one eye with the other.