The Fifth Sorceress Read online

  As Tristan continued to watch the sky, his mind turned from affairs of state to affairs of the heart. Even though he didn’t have a wife – he should soon say ‘queen,’ he reminded himself – there had nonetheless been many women in his life. He sighed. Far too many, according to his parents. Even his twin sister Shailiha, his most staunch defender of what some would call his recent disregard for his royal duties and responsibilities, had begun to criticize him about his romantic dalliances.

  But the prince had always been kind to those women who hoped to capture his heart. Because of his good looks and royal position, the realm was positively overflowing with women who were more than willing to try. Sometimes, during his public appearances at court, he couldn’t decide which flapped faster, their batting eyelashes or the unfolded fans that each of them always seemed obligated to flutter while trying to cool the quick blush of their cheeks. Many, to the increasingly obvious chagrin of both his family and the Directorate, had ended up in his bed.

  But he had never fallen in love.

  None of the women he had encountered so far had moved him to the point of wanting more than a brief dalliance. It wasn’t that he was cold or uncaring toward them. He treated them kindly, and always ended his affairs like a gentleman. That was simply his nature. He laced his fingers behind his sore head, cushioning it from the saddle, and watched as a particularly interesting cumulus floated over. Reminding himself that at least there had been no scandalous pregnancies, he sighed.

  Sadly, it was just that no woman had ever really made him ache in her absence to the point of distraction, or hunger in her presence to the point of pain. Deeper, in his heart of hearts, he truly hoped that one day it would be different. Secretly, he wished that he could be as happy as his sister. Shailiha was his elder, something that she was overly fond of teasing him about. He was equally fond of teasing her back, claiming that even though she had preceded him into this world by only eight minutes, one day he would be king and have dominion over her. But truthfully he wished his life were more like hers. She was very happily married to Frederick, commander of the Royal Guard, one of Tristan’s best friends. And she was now five and a half months pregnant, the entire royal family and court excitedly awaiting the blessed event. But most of all he envied the fact that she would never have to rule. He smirked upward at the afternoon sky. At least his parents, King Nicholas and Queen Morganna, had raised one heir that pleased them.

  Then, sadly, there was also the matter of his studies and royal duties as prince.

  He had been educated in all matter of things his entire life by the wizards in preparation for his succession of his father as king. And although the realm had been at peace for over three centuries and had acquired no foes since, he had also been scrupulously trained in the art of war by the Royal Guard. After the Sorceresses’ War, the Directorate had wisely vowed never to allow the nation’s guard down again. Operating under the assumption that those who do not learn from history are condemned to repeat it, they had decreed that the history of the war be taught to each and every Eutracian schoolchild, and a term of service in the Royal Guard be mandatory for each able-bodied man in the kingdom, with the option of choosing it as a life’s career. Plaques and monuments, almost always of the finest marble, dotted the countryside at the sites of many of the most important battles of the war. They were at the same time both sad and greatly respected places, as most of them marked the scenes of the massacres of long-since dead wizards and their slaughtered troops. Therefore, by tradition, the Royal Guard stood vigilantly at the ready to defend the realm against any potential threat, training relentlessly toward that end. But Tristan was sure that during his reign, as had been true for so long now, he would never have to call upon them for any reason.

  Especially the defense of the realm.

  He yawned, running his fingers again back through the longish black hair and over the painful bump that had resulted from his leap back to the cliff. Once he was king, the wizards would probably make him cut his hair in a more appropriate style. And then, when he eventually joined the Directorate, they would have him grow the customary wizard’s tail of braided hair down the back of his neck. Depressed, he realized that all he had ever wanted was to have a normal life, but it had never been allowed him. Nor would it ever be.

  The classroom training that had come to him from the wizards had been presented in many forms. Eutracian history and civics, basic laws of the realm, reading and writing the language, and so on. Following that had come studies in the kingdom’s culture: her music, literature, and the arts. Then had come the requisite training in the negotiation and arbitration of the endless requests and bickering between the dukes who represented the seven different duchies that made up the kingdom and contributed to her welfare with their taxes. Politics was not his strong suit, and he still had much to learn, with very little time remaining in which to learn it. He reflected glumly upon the wisdom of taking an entire day away from his studies to come up here, only to lie in the luxurious grass of a high mountain glade. The back of his head was now throbbing badly. Perhaps overall he had done himself more harm than good today.

  But his smile returned when he thought about the other side of his training – the physical side. His education with the Royal Guard had been his one true love, and he had, at the great pride of his drill officers, excelled at almost everything. Swordsmanship, archery, dagger use, horsemanship, hand-to-hand combat, and survival skills, among many other things. These had made up the basic war education in which he had found the most joy.

  He could still remember his father’s thunderous voice castigating him when, at eighteen years of age, he had asked to be relieved of his duties as prince and be given a commission in the Royal Guard, instead. And despite his father’s rebuke, Tristan had foolishly continued to press him to honor his request. It was only when his father had finally taken him aside into the ornate anteroom of the royal quarters and spoken to him in private that he had finally understood. That was the day he had learned that his mother, Queen Morganna, had almost died while giving life first to his twin sister, and then to him. As a result, she could bear no more children. Therefore, because of Nicholas’ unprecedented desire to join the Directorate and to be followed by his only son Tristan, the young man’s fate was sealed first as prince, then king, and finally as a wizard of the Directorate itself.

  It was the only time in his life that he had seen his father cry.

  Crying, trying to make his son understand.

  And so he had cooperated, abjectly resigning himself to the fate that was to be his, taking as much joy as possible in the physical side of his training and unhappily but stoically enduring his academic studies and position at court as best he could. But over the last few years, something had changed. Sometimes he could now feel the power of the endowed blood coursing through his veins. He shook his head in consternation. Endowed blood, he thought to himself. That which allows the learning of the craft.

  At times it seemed that his blood had a life of its own, streaming anxiously through his body and brain as if begging him to hurry through his reign so as to finally begin his wizard’s training with the Directorate and bring the power forth. And when this feeling came upon him, as it seemed to do so often of late, nothing else in the world made him feel so alive. But no matter how much he begged them, the wizards of the Directorate had adamantly refused his requests to train him in his power at this stage in his life. You must become king first, they had always said. They had openly admitted that none of them could remember any other royal heirs with endowed blood who had behaved quite like this at such an early age. And yet they had never explained either his unusually premature requests or their adamant refusals.

  Tristan glanced back down from the sky, across the clearing and at the beauty that surrounded him. The Season of New Life was in full bloom, and was his favorite. It seemed to have come early to Eutracia this year, thankfully freeing the cities and countryside from the grip of the snow and the cold. Then followed the Season of the Sun, when all of the plants and crops started to mature, followed by the Season of Harvest, when the crops were picked before the cold winds and snow set in again. And finally came the Season of Crystal that blew snow and cold down upon the land from the high surrounding mountain ranges, finally giving way to allow the cycle to repeat.

  He looked at the violet and blue leaves of the bugaylea trees that framed the clearing at the edge of the woods, as did the pink trillium blossoms that grew so thickly here, virtually covering the first few paces into the forest floor. A covey of rare, three-winged triad larks suddenly took flight from their nests high in the trees, each one’s trio of blue-and-white wings beating gracefully up and away against the sky as they called out to one another. It all reminded him of how much he wished his life at the royal residence could have this type of symmetry and simplicity. Each living being here in the Hartwick Woods seemed to know and, more importantly, accept its place in the Afterlife’s great plan.

  And then his eyes went wide, and the breath caught in his lungs.

  He couldn’t believe what was suddenly before him.

  It was a very rare occurrence to see them; most Eutracians went their entire lives enviously only hearing others describe their great beauty. Some claimed that they were only a myth. Still others declared that they had been created by the wizards and, as such, only those trained in the craft were able to see them. He held his breath and lay as still as death, so as not to frighten them away. For the first time in his life, he had the privilege of watching them dart to and fro in the warm afternoon sunshine.

  The Fliers of the Fields.

  Dozens of the giant butterflies soared and careened effortlessly on the afternoon breeze, each of their diaphanous wings as far across as a man’s forearm, the body and head delicately posed between them. They darted and swayed with such speed he couldn’t understand what kept them from colliding, but they never did. Red, green, blue, black, white, yellow, and violet, some a single hue and others multicolored, they flashed by unerringly over the fresh, green grasses of the clearing. To catch a quick glimpse of them once in a lifetime was miracle enough. But to see them now, for this long a time, was unheard of.

  It was then that he saw Pilgrim at the other edge of the clearing, shaking his head and mane as he whinnied and pawed the ground. Without notice, Pilgrim abruptly charged into the center of the glade, clearly intrigued. The giant butterflies, instead of flying away in fear as had always been reported to be their nature, were now unmistakably teasing the horse. And Pilgrim was responding in kind, jumping, running, and bucking all over the field as the game progressed. The butterflies’ beauty was so great and the game so fascinating, Tristan didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but laughter won as Pilgrim fruitlessly tried to catch them.

  And then the giant butterflies were gone.

  They careened away, leaving the clearing in a great, curving turn, flying single file into the woods with astonishing speed. It happened so quickly that it was almost as if they were of one mind. Then, to Tristan’s initial amusement, Pilgrim turned frantically after them, knocking down tree branches and making a noisy entrance into the woods. Tristan smiled, knowing the stallion would chase them for only a short distance into the forest and then finally turn back to his master.

  But he didn’t.

  He kept on going, finally out of sight.

  Tristan stood up, ignoring his pain, the smile on his lips beginning to fade. He gave the customary whistle, but Pilgrim still did not appear. Concerned, he put two fingers into his mouth and whistled harder, but the horse was gone.

  His mood now turning to genuine concern, Tristan pulled the bridle and reins from the tree branch and slung them across his shoulder. Then, clutching his quiver full of dirks, he began running across the field, toward the same spot where the Fliers of the Fields and the stallion had entered the forest.

  He had to find the horse. Tristan’s trot broke into a full run as his worry increased. At least it was easy to follow the trail. The heavyset horse left shoe prints in the soft earth, not to mention the wide trail of crushed trillium blossoms.

  A sudden, terrible thought seized him. Suppose he came upon Pilgrim and the stallion was injured? There were many burrowing creatures in these woods, and their entrance holes into the forest floor were numerous. If the unknowing stallion stepped into one, he would go over and down, breaking his leg like a dry twig. Worse yet, Tristan would have to put the horse to death, with no humane means to do it. Back in Tammerland if a horse went down, a wizard would be called upon to dissipate the animal’s mind into a painless, sudden death. But here, in these strange woods, he would somehow have to kill the horse himself, and all he had with him was his dirks – too small to do the job properly. It also frightened him to know that the edge of the cliff ran parallel to the horse’s headlong run. In these dense woods, if the Fliers of the Fields changed course and suddenly flew out into the air over the cliff, the horse would not see the edge in time and run straight off. His mind sheered away from the images. They were too awful to contemplate.

  Keep running, his frightened mind shouted to him. The trail exists and has not changed course. Pilgrim is all right.

  He ran on, harder. At least another half league, he thought.

  Tristan, his body now completely bathed in sweat, began to lose his bearings. Despite the shade from the dense trees, the forest seemed unusually hot. Fetid, heavily scented air made it difficult to breathe, and the undergrowth had become much thicker, branches and vines pulling at his hair and clothing like outstretched fingers, threatening to take him down. He realized suddenly that he had never entered this area of the forest before. Perhaps it was just his imagination, but the whole forest seemed unfamiliar and full of strange sensations. The bridle and reins were bouncing irritatingly across the back of his shoulder as he ran, and the pain in his legs was increasing, throbbing in unison with the quick beating of his heart.

  He also had the chilling sensation that the harder he ran, the less progress he was making. He stopped and bent over, panting, trying to ease the fire in his lungs.

  Standing still, he stole a precious moment to examine the forest more closely. Discouragingly, Pilgrim’s trail still led away, up a small rise a short distance away. As his breathing slowed, he looked about slowly.

  He thought he must be hallucinating.

  Everything in this part of the forest was giant in size. Unfamiliar-looking trees reached endlessly toward the sky, with branches so thick that the ground below was occasionally lost in virtual darkness. Shimmering slivers of prismed sunlight randomly found their way to earth as the breeze shifted the great branches overhead. It would have taken at least five men holding hands to surround even the smallest of these enormous, ancient trees, and each of their partially exposed and snaking roots were at least three times the width of his thigh. The pink trillium blossoms, normally about the size of his palm, were now the size of dinner plates, and vines as thick around as ale kegs hung from the great heights all the way to the ground.

  The forest floor was like the deepest, most luxurious carpet of the royal palace, and everywhere the colors were indescribable. The reds, greens, and violets of the foliage somehow seemed to become even more luminous as random silver pillars of sunlight occasionally stabbed down at them. He took a deep breath through his nostrils; even the texture of the air had suddenly changed and now seemed perfumed, a wonderfully aromatic combination of scents.

  It was like walking into a dream.

  Exhausted and dripping with sweat, he was amazed to see a nearby mushroom that was the size of a dinner table. He walked over and gently started to sit down. Unbelievably, it held his weight. He dropped the bridle on the soft forest floor and, still holding his quiver, tried to regain his breath.

  Tristan once again looked up toward the path of widely spread foliage that marked the horse’s trail. It went about fifty paces forward in a basically straight line, leading up to a small rise and disappearing upon what appeared to be a plateaued clearing. He sighed, strapped the quiver in its usual place around and across his back, picked up the reins and bridle, and resignedly started up the trail. Too tired to run, he walked quickly to the top of the rise.

  When he finally stood at the top, what he saw made his jaw drop.

  He was standing at the edge of a small circular clearing, bordered on all sides by tall trees with colorful foliage. Directly across from him on the other side of the glade was Pilgrim, standing dead still, intensely watching something. The horse looked calm and apparently unhurt, aside from some scrapes and scratches obtained during his frantic chase through the woods. His chest was heaving and dripping with sweat, and his muzzle was lathered with foam from the exertion of his run. And although Tristan was relieved to see him, it wasn’t the stallion that now so fascinated the prince.

  It was the butterflies.

  Immediately next to where Pilgrim was standing at the edge of the clearing was a huge embankment. It stood strangely all upon its own, its right and left sides gently sloping down over some distance back to the level of the ground. Its edges were matted with the same pink trillium blossoms and soft, deep grasses that had covered the forest floor. Embedded in its center was a strange, square, gray shape that Tristan could not identify because it had long since been encroached upon and almost completely covered by odd, variegated vines. Had the butterflies not drawn the prince’s attention to it, he would surely never have noticed it at all.

  Perched upon the vines, resting entirely at peace, were the Fliers of the Fields, their only movement the occasional gentle opening and closing of their wings.