The fifth sorceress, p.57
The Fifth Sorceress, page 57
Succiu glared at Geldon, who had by now managed to drag the inert slave to the edge. She narrowed her eyes, smiled, and pointed to Stefan. ‘Throw him in,’ she said simply.
Geldon stood there in front of his mistress, speechless. She had ordered him to perform many depraved acts over the course of the last three centuries, but until this moment, she had never ordered him to kill anyone. He looked back at her, through her, as if she didn’t exist. He simply couldn’t do it.
Succiu’s reaction to his doubt was immediate. She backhanded him as hard as she could, sending him sprawling onto the floor, into the bright red blood that Stefan had left on the otherwise pristine white marble. ‘Throw him in,’ she ordered, ‘or you will follow him.’
I have no choice, he thought to himself. If I die now, our plans will be for nothing, and all will be lost. Slowly rising to his feet, he forced himself to slap Stefan’s face and pull on the chains, finally coaxing the semi-conscious man to stand erect on the edge of the pit.
Geldon walked up behind him and waited for Succiu’s order.
And then the unexpected happened.
‘Wait!’ he heard one of the women demand. Turning, he could see that it was Shailiha.
All four mistresses simultaneously turned their concerned eyes upon their newest Sister, examining her face for clues. Failee’s heart began to race, fearing that some remnant of the princess’s past life had somehow come to the fore, repulsed by what was about to happen. She looked calmly into Shailiha’s face. ‘Yes, my dear?’ she asked politely.
Shailiha looked down at the many pairs of yellow eyes in the pit and then back at the slave. Her breath was quick and ragged. ‘Let me do it,’ she whispered.
Failee cast a knowing, relieved look at Succiu. ‘Of course,’ she said to the princess. ‘You may do the honors. It is perhaps the most fitting thing, since this is your first trip to the Sanctuary.’
Shailiha walked carefully to stand behind Stefan, sneered at Geldon, and then rather roughly pushed the dwarf aside, as if to make sure he was not about to rob her of her request. She smiled and closed her eyes, feeling the endowed blood rushing through her veins with more sheer joy than she had ever known.
With a strong, quick push, she sent the slave over the edge.
Immediately the many pairs of eyes descended on the body as it tumbled headlong into the darkness, and the screams from the slave seemed to go on forever as they echoed back and forth in the chamber. Shailiha heard the moist, violent ripping and tearing of flesh, and then more screams radiated upward before all went quiet. Looking up she saw that some of the mistresses had been splattered with blood, she included. Succiu placed an index finger into a blood spot on one of her leather gauntlets and touched it to her tongue, smiling. Shailiha smiled back.
Geldon lowered his head, and a tear began to form in each of his eyes and run down the lengths of his cheeks. One tear for the slave, he thought. And one tear for the princess this new sorceress used to be.
Chapter Twenty-two
It took Tristan a long time to awaken. Several times he felt himself drifting in and out of consciousness before actually coming to his senses. It had been a maddening experience, knowing that he desperately needed to reenter the world but at the same time also being held back from it. Finally, he woke up completely.
He was lying prone on the dirty, cold, wooden floor of a small dark room. A fetid, animal-like smell hung in the air. He was not in pain from his journey through the vortex, but his senses had been dulled and his mind swam sickeningly, as though he had consumed too much wine. He managed to sit up – and the point of a sword appeared out of nowhere, aimed at his throat, silently daring him to move again. The shiny, silver blade twinkled in the weak moonlight that came through the room’s only window.
‘Identify yourself,’ a male voice said calmly.
Before answering Tristan risked a quick look around. Against one wall, he could just make out what seemed to be a great many rows of some kind of small cubicles. The only other furniture was a small writing desk and a chair. Wigg lay on the floor a little distance away, curled up into a ball and still unconscious, the way a child might be seen peacefully sleeping in a crib.
Groaning inwardly, the prince realized that he was defenseless. Having worn the dirks across his right shoulder for so many years now he knew immediately when they were not present. The baldric that normally housed his dreggan was feather light. It is no doubt my own dreggan that is now at my throat, he observed cautiously.
A strange noise was coming from the wall that held the cubicles. Turning his full attention to the odd sound, Tristan realized it was the simultaneous cooing of many birds. Parthalon, he thought. The Ghetto of the Shunned. Geldon’s aviary. It has to be.
Moving very carefully, he sat up a little straighter. If he needed to try to overpower this man he would have to move fast. ‘Is this the Ghetto?’ he asked anxiously. ‘Are you Geldon?’
No answer came. But his eyes were adjusting to the dim light. He could see his robed and hooded captor, and the dreggan that was still pointed at his throat, but he could not make out the man’s face.
Finally, the other man spoke. ‘If you ask one more question before answering mine, you will have a hole where your throat used to be.’ The dreggan moved even closer to Tristan’s neck. ‘Identify yourself!’
The prince’s mind raced. He looked to Wigg, still unconscious on the floor just a little bit away from him. It might as well have been 100 leagues. Tristan needed the old one now, but there was no way to reach him to wake him up. If I tell the cloaked one who I am before knowing his identity, I could be signing our death warrants, he thought. But the longer I hold out and tell this man nothing, the greater the chance that we will be killed anyway. And then he had an even more urgent thought. Wigg is unconscious. While he is like that he cannot hide our blood from the Coven.
‘You must allow me to awaken my friend first,’ he said brazenly. ‘Then, if you don’t like what I say, you can be as creative as you wish and kill us both any way you want.’ He wished he could see the man’s eyes.
‘No,’ his captor returned angrily. ‘Insolence does not constitute an answer.’ Whatever patience his captor once had was clearly gone. Tristan thought he detected a slight movement of the man’s right hand; he tried not to flinch as the tip of the dreggan shot out its extra foot, the familiar, deadly ring clanging out into the darkness of the room. The sword’s blade now rested coldly against the side of his neck. All the other man would have to do to cut his throat would be to turn the blade slightly inward, and Tristan would soon bleed to death, his jugular severed neatly in half.
‘Last chance,’ the voice said from inside the hood.
Tristan took a deep breath. ‘I am Prince Tristan of Eutracia.’
‘Of what House?’
‘The House of Galland. Son of Nicholas and Morganna, now dead. Twin brother to Shailiha.’ At the mention of his sister’s name, Tristan thought he saw the other man relax slightly.
‘Otherwise known as?’ his captor asked.
Tristan’s mind went blank. He didn’t know how to respond to such a question. Then he realized what the man was searching for.
‘Otherwise known as the Chosen One,’ he said quietly. He suddenly realized that this was the first time he had ever referred to himself as such.
The man in the cloak freed one hand from the sword and reached out to pluck an unlit candle from somewhere out of the darkness. He placed the candle on the floor, about a foot away from the seated prince. Striking a match, the man lit the candle, and the room began to brighten. But it was still not bright enough for the prince to see the other man’s face within the folds of the dark hood.
‘The Chosen One is said to wear a medallion around his neck,’ the man said calmly. ‘If you are he, then show it to me now.’ He moved the dreggan slightly away from Tristan’s flesh.
Tristan bent over slightly and reached into his vest, pulling out the medallion, lowering it over the flame of the candle. The familiar images of the lion and the broadsword twinkled in the dim, golden glow.
‘Who gave it to you?’
‘My mother, Morganna, queen of Eutracia.’ Tristan tucked the precious bit of gold back under his vest.
‘And who is the old one?’ the cloaked man asked, indicating the wizard lying on the floor.
‘He is Wigg, Lead Wizard of the Directorate of Wizards. He is also my friend.’
The man’s hand on the hilt of the sword moved again, and the extra length of the dreggan clanged back into place. The blade was lowered to the floor.
‘Thank you,’ the one in the cloak said, almost kindly. ‘Please forgive my actions, but we had to be sure.’
The man then walked over to the other side of the room, where he gathered several more candles and began lighting them one by one. As the brightness increased Tristan could see that this was not the hunchback Geldon: this man was tall and straight backed. The dark yellow robe he wore was worn and torn in many places, but seemed to be clean.
‘Who are you?’ Tristan asked, standing up and testing the muscles in his legs.
‘I am Ian, Geldon’s friend. I am also the keeper of the birds. It is a great pleasure to meet you finally.’ Ian turned around, lowering his hood, and looked the prince in the face.
What Tristan saw made him narrow his eyes and take an unconscious step backward.
Ian was about the same age as the prince and had bright blue eyes, but that was where any similarity ended. Those eyes and his straw-colored blond hair were the only normal things about him. His face and neck, where it disappeared into his robe, had been ravaged by some terrible disease such as the prince had never seen. A glance at his hands showed them to be the same – all sores and gray flesh.
‘I’m sorry,’ the prince said immediately. ‘I wasn’t expecting…’
‘I understand,’ Ian said gracefully. ‘It is called leprosy, and it is ultimately fatal. I have had the illness for about two years. Although not everyone becomes infected, there is no cure. But don’t be alarmed for yourself or your friend. Your endowed blood will protect you from it – Master Faegan told us so. He also told us that there is no such thing as leprosy in Eutracia,’ he added a bit wistfully.
‘Wrong on two counts,’ Wigg’s familiar voice called out from the other side of the room. Tristan looked over to see the wizard sitting up, obviously in more distress than the prince had been when he first awakened.
Tristan immediately went to him, and could see that the wizard appeared flushed and was breathing more heavily than normal. This can’t simply be the aftereffects of the vortex, Tristan thought. Wigg is as strong as I have ever been. He motioned for Ian to bring him the chair, and he helped Wigg into it.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked anxiously. ‘Are you not well?’
‘I am well,’ Wigg said breathlessly. He looked up into Tristan’s face. ‘The vortex was an interesting experience, wasn’t it?’ He looked quickly around the room, and then directly at Ian. A hint of recognition showed in the wizard’s face. He looked back up at the prince. ‘At least we didn’t turn blue, like Nicodemus,’ he said, one corner of his mouth turning cynically upward.
Tristan smiled. ‘No, that’s true. But why do you seem to be so tired?’
‘Can’t you guess?’
He is forever testing me, Tristan thought. Forever my mentor. But instinctively he knew the answer. ‘You’re hiding our blood, aren’t you? That’s what is draining your energy.’
‘Yes,’ Wigg said simply. ‘And the effort required is more than I had originally imagined. The quality of your blood is so exceptionally high that it is extremely difficult to disguise. But I should be able to manage, especially after some time has gone by and my gift has accustomed itself to the strain.’ He gave the prince a harder, more serious look. ‘It is important that your fabled impetuousness does not get us into anything you yourself cannot get us out of,’ he ordered. He let out a long breath and rubbed the back of his neck, stretching his muscles. ‘I will not be able to use my gift to help you. Not and continue to hide us from the Coven. You have a very big heart, Tristan. Just don’t put it into the wrong kinds of places while we are here, as you have been known to do.’ The wizard’s infamous eyebrow shot upward.
Wigg’s remarks stung, but the prince knew that the old one was right. Wigg was no doubt referring to the day when, against the wizard’s better judgment, Tristan had insisted upon helping the woman they thought was Lillith, a decision that almost cost them both their lives. But the hunger to kill the ones who had murdered his family burned as hotly as ever inside him. He knew he would be able to make no promises as to his actions when the time came.
Ian walked over to where Wigg was sitting, obviously in awe of the wizard. ‘When I was explaining leprosy to the prince, you said I was wrong about two things,’ he said, obviously concerned. ‘What were they?’
Wigg looked up into the blue eyes, and then to the lesions and gray skin that covered the young man’s face. I have not seen this horror for almost 300 years, he thought. Everywhere the Coven goes, they bring nothing but suffering.
‘First, there was leprosy in the kingdom of Eutracia,’ Wigg began. ‘The Coven induced it into the population during the war, and then dispersed rumors throughout the land that it was an intentional by-product of male endowed blood. Their plans proved to be quite successful, and we knew we had to find a cure to reverse both the physical and psychological damage that had been done.’ He looked at Ian, anticipating the effect of his next words. ‘We found it,’ he said compassionately.
Ian fell to his knees in front of the wizard’s chair. ‘You mean to say that there is a cure?’ he asked. His eyes were full of tears – both of wonder and of hope – as he looked beseechingly at Wigg. ‘Why would Master Faegan not inform me of such a thing?’
‘I am sure it was because he knew he could never come here himself, and therefore could see no reason to raise your hopes,’ Wigg said. But he knew that I would tell you. He smiled to himself. Faegan always had other, more compassionate motives hidden beneath the obvious. Even 300 years ago.
‘There is an incantation that may end your suffering,’ he explained, affectionately placing one hand on the young man’s head. ‘But please understand, it does not always work. And, of course, I cannot perform it now for fear of the Coven detecting our presence. But if we survive all of this, I may be able to help.’
‘Your word is enough, Lead Wizard,’ Ian said. He stood up on shaky legs and smiled slightly, wiping the tears from his cheeks.
Tristan reached down to the floor and recovered his dreggan, which he slipped back into its scabbard. ‘Where are my dirks?’ he asked Ian.
Ian gave him a quick nod of understanding and walked to the small writing desk. Opening the single drawer he removed all twelve of the knives and handed them to the prince. Tristan placed them into the quiver, glad to feel their comforting weight over his right shoulder. He silently cursed himself for not having brought even more of them. These would just have to do.
The prince walked to the wall of cubicles that held the many enchanted pigeons. He had to admit that they were beautiful birds. ‘How many of them are there?’ he asked Ian.
‘Over one hundred now,’ Ian said, his face darkening with concern. ‘They are becoming quite a responsibility.’
Despite Ian’s words, Tristan could tell that caring for these birds had become a labor of love. Now he remembered Ian’s supposed friend. So far all had gone as planned, but he still had his suspicions. ‘Where is Geldon?’ he asked suddenly.
‘He waited for you as long as he dared,’ Ian said. ‘He runs a great risk coming here, to the aviary. Even as it is, he cannot be assured that she will send him out of the castle on any given night. Sometimes she requires his presence for her …amusements.’ His face blushed around the many red lesions. ‘He suffers greatly,’ he added. ‘As we all have.’
‘Is he expected to return tonight?’ Wigg asked. He seemed more composed now, no longer flushed, his breathing calmer.
‘We are hopeful. I know that is not what you wanted to hear, but it is all I can offer you.’
‘Beginning with today, there are only six days remaining until the Blood Communion,’ Tristan said, rubbing his brow. He scowled and shook his head, anxious beyond words to leave this place and accomplish what he had come here to do. ‘And just what are we supposed to do until then?’
‘We wait here, in this room,’ Ian said. ‘Going out into the Ghetto for any reason is an unjustified risk. We will wait here all day until nightfall, and then we’ll see. When – if – he comes, you will leave with him for the Recluse.’
The Recluse. Shailiha.
Tristan looked out the lone, sad little window of the room that was to be his prison for at least two more days as the sun began its slow climb and the rays of his first morning in Parthalon crept silently into the aviary.
Tristan’s first day in Parthalon passed with an odd combination of maddening boredom and excruciating tension. Unable to leave the room, the three of them spent most of the day talking. Wigg was especially eager to glean from Ian all that he could about the nation of Parthalon, but it soon became apparent that Ian’s helpfulness would be limited, since he had been born inside the Ghetto and had never ventured beyond its walls. Adding to that frustration was the warmth of the day, and the stuffiness of the aviary; the smell of the birds was a suffocating blanket of mustiness, and their cooing eventually became a constant annoyance.
At least Ian and Geldon had had the foresight to keep some food in the aviary. Now, fortified by a meager meal of bread, cheese, and water, Tristan gazed out the solitary window at the dark of night, anxious to be off and away from this confining place. It was close to midnight. The stars in the sky twinkled just as brightly here as they did in Eutracia, the three red moons casting their familiar crimson glow upon the land. The dwarf must come soon, he thought, or we will have lost another entire day. The wait was becoming interminable.
