Rise of the Blood Royal Page 5

  As he heard Shailiha and Jessamay laugh, he couldn’t help but enjoy the carefree sound. These two women had endured similar—and similarly awful—hardships at the hands of the late Coven of Sorceresses. Shailiha had been abducted by the Coven because Failee needed her to consummate her mad plan to transform Shailiha into her fifth sorceress. Shailiha had been pregnant at the time. Only after many deadly trials had Tristan and Wigg been able to reach Parthalon and bring Shailiha and her new baby girl home. Frederick, Shailiha’s late husband, killed during the Coven’s savage attack on Tammerland, had not lived to see his child. Although Shailiha seemed happier these days, Tristan knew that she often felt lonely.

  Jessamay, a full-fledged sorceress in her own right, had once been a member of Wigg’s famous Black Guard—an elite group of Vigors followers who employed hit-and-run tactics against the Coven during the Sorceresses’ War. After being taken prisoner by Failee’s forces, she and several others like her had been used by Failee as test subjects for her cruel experiments. More than three hundred years later, Tristan and Wigg found Jessamay cowering alone in the belly of the Recluse, the Coven’s onetime stronghold in Parthalon. She didn’t look any older than Shailiha and Tristan, since she had been put under the protection of the time enchantments at the age of thirty-five, but she was bent and nearly broken by pain and starvation. After she had recovered, Tristan had offered her a seat on the Conclave. To everyone’s approval, Jessamay readily accepted.

  As he took another sip of ale, Tristan looked at his sister again. She was as pretty as ever. Long blond hair fell to her shoulders, and her hazel eyes shone with life. Although Shailiha often wore gowns, tonight she had chosen a simple dark blouse, a leather jerkin, green trousers, and soft brown boots. A gold medallion hung around her neck, an exact copy of the one Tristan wore. The medallions, enchanted by the Envoys during Tristan’s second and last visit to Crysenium, allowed each to see whatever the other saw. Tristan and Shailiha had used the medallions infrequently, but he believed that they might have great value in the days to come.

  Suddenly he wondered about his niece. “Shai, where’s Morganna?” he asked, looking around. She tilted her head toward a corner of the room, and then he saw the cot set up there, and Morganna lying asleep, the covers tucked up around her chin. The usually energetic three-year-old looked the picture of peace and contentment.

  Just then Shawna quit her incessant sweeping and waddled over to the table, fists on her hips. Knowing full well what was coming, Tristan rolled his eyes at Shailiha.

  “So, Your Highness,” Shawna began, “it seems that tonight’s dinner didn’t suit you, either, eh? I’ll have you know that my rack of lamb is the best in the kingdom! If you don’t believe me you can ask the First Wizard—he’ll set you straight! He didn’t have to be coaxed into eating three helpings of it!”

  She gave a little snort of disapproval as she watched Tristan take another bite of his sandwich. Soon one of her wizened index fingers was waggling before his face.

  “I’ll have you all know that’s not a proper meal you’re eating,” she added, “even though I laid it out myself!”

  Tristan knew that the best way to deal with Shawna was to give back as good as she dished out. Like most gnomes, she didn’t respect anyone whom she could intimidate. Before answering, he gave her a knowing look.

  What Shawna lacked in stature she more than made up for in tough-minded spirit. Her iron-gray hair was knotted in a severe bun at the back of her head. A stark white apron was tied around her middle over her plain gingham dress. The laces of her no-nonsense shoes were, as always, double-knotted, so that she would never have to stop working for such a silly reason as retying her footwear. Her calloused hands were gnarled but strong. Everything about her bespoke the virtues of hard work and common sense. As her sharp blue eyes met Tristan’s, he suspected that she wanted to smile back, but he also knew that she wouldn’t allow herself the luxury.

  “I just don’t like lamb, that’s all,” he said, deliberately chiding her. “But my sandwich is good.” He gave her a quick wink. “I made it myself.”

  Before Shawna could retort, the kitchen doors blew open and Shannon the Short, Shawna’s husband, came charging into the room. His face was almost as red as his beard, and he was out of breath.

  As usual, Shannon was wearing a pair of worn blue overalls and a red work shirt, the sleeves rolled up over his beefy forearms. A black watch cap sat at a jaunty angle on his head. One hand held an ale jug, and the other grasped a corncob pipe.

  As the pungent smoke curled its way up and out of the pipe and into Shawna’s spotless kitchen, Tristan watched her well-known ire rise even farther. She was always upset whenever Shannon came near Morganna with his jug and pipe, however harmless he might be. But this time something in the look on the little man’s face told Tristan that trouble was afoot.

  “What is it?” the prince demanded.

  “It’s Master Faegan!” Shannon said, trying to catch his breath. “He told me to fetch you three straightaway! He needs you in the Archives of the Redoubt! All the other Conclave members are already there, saving Tyranny, Traax, and Sister Adrian, who are still in Parthalon!”

  Standing, Tristan hurriedly arranged his weapons over his right shoulder.

  “What’s wrong?” Shailiha demanded, also rising.

  “I doubt that even Master Faegan could describe it!” Shannon replied. “He wants everyone to see it with their own eyes! You must come now!”

  “For the Afterlife’s sake, tell us what’s going on!” Tristan shouted as he and the two women hurried for the door. But Shannon had already entered the hallway and was waddling away as fast as he could.

  Shailiha was the last one to leave the room. As she reached the doorway, she abruptly stopped to look first at Morganna and then at Shawna.

  Shawna smiled back reassuringly. “You know that I will,” she said gently. With a quick nod of thanks, the princess hurried after the others.

  Running down hallway after hallway, they made their way through the secret passageways leading down into the Redoubt, the labyrinth of hallways and rooms that served as the Conclave’s area of craft instruction and research. Even at this late hour the Redoubt was a mass of confusion, with busy consuls and acolytes running this way and that on various arcane errands. Tristan considered stopping one of them to demand what was going on, but then decided not to use up valuable time. Several minutes and a few properly negotiated hallways later, he and the others found themselves standing before the majestic Archive doors.

  A crowd of bewildered consuls and acolytes stood before the entryway, obstructing the view. Tristan shouted to everyone to step aside, and they parted to make way for their Jin’Sai.

  The Archive doors were wide open. No sound came from the room, but a nearly blinding azure glow was pouring through the doors and flooding the hallway. With a worried look, Tristan drew his dreggan and charged in.

  CHAPTER III

  “O BLESSED FLAME, WE PRAY THAT YOU WILL REMAIN constant in your strength. Fear not that we of the Priory will let your light fail, for as long as our virtue remains unblemished and we are pledged to your everlasting light, your spirit will endure. For wherever your flame lives, so too does the immense power of the Vagaries. In your name and toward that end I deliver this spell of strength.”

  Her prayer finished, the Femiculi of the Priory of Virtue remained on her knees with bowed head and closed eyes. Now she would perform the second and final part of the all-important ritual. Slowly she opened her eyes and looked up.

  As it had done for aeons, a great flame burned in an enormous marble bowl in the Rotunda of the Priory. Like the woman who knelt before it, the flame was pure, serene, and powerful. It burned without heat, smoke, or sound—just a flame so high that it reached halfway to the occulum, the circular hole in the apex of the chamber’s domed ceiling.

  As the firelight burst through the occulum into the dark night, it reassured Ellistiumites moving about the city that thei
r precious flame still lived. Viewing the heavens above the rotunda each evening was the only way for the citizens to be sure, for admittance to the dome was strictly limited to the emperor, the empress, the Pon Q’tar, and the twenty Priory virgins.

  The magnificent Priory Rotunda sat atop one of seven hills that surrounded Ellistium. A host of krithian centurions, their weapons always at the ready, continuously prowled the Rotunda’s beautifully landscaped grounds.

  The Rotunda served three purposes. It housed the eternal flame, provided sanctuary for the women who had dedicated their lives and their chastity to ensure that the flame never died, and housed the ritual known as the auguries. It was believed that the sacred flame empowered the Vagaries. If the flame died, so would the side of the craft worshipped by all Rustannicans. Should the Vagaries die, so too would the nation, for the barbaric Shashidans would surely succeed in crossing the Borderlands and wiping out all that the Rustannicans held dear. The Pon Q’tar had commissioned the construction of the Rotunda long ago, soon after Rustannica had seceded from Shashida. Legend had it that another perpetual flame burning in Shashida empowered the Vigors.

  It was also said that during the first tenuous days of the empire, the Pon Q’tar clerics stole the Vagaries flame just before announcing Rustannica’s independence. Those brave clerics had also tried to extinguish the Vigors flame at the same moment, but failed, and thus the civil war began. With the coming of Vespasian and his supremely endowed blood, everyone believed that final victory would soon be within their reach.

  Before starting the needed spell, the Femiculi took a moment to look around the Rotunda. She had been a member of the Priory since she was twenty years old. That had been twelve years ago, and even now she remained awed by the structure that was her home.

  The massive dome was fifty meters wide at its base and more than thirty meters high. The occulum in the dome’s center was ten meters across, and its circumference was ringed with gold. When the flame was at its lowest ebb, stars could be seen sparkling through the occulum. The interior of the dome was made of pure ivory blocks. As the firelight struck the blocks it created shimmering shadows of red, silver, and white.

  The huge black altar that supported the bowl and the flame sat in the middle of the floor. A freestanding fluted column of pure gold rose from each of the altar’s four corners, and each column was topped by a jewel-studded capital. The floor surrounding the altar was made of highly polished rose and black quartz checkerboard squares.

  A second, smaller altar stood between the Femiculi and the bowl. As she looked at it, she shuddered, trying not to think about its grisly purpose.

  Now it was time for Julia Idaeus, the reigning Femiculi of the Priory, to commence the spell that would empower the flame through another moon. Slowly she came to her feet and raised her arms. Then she closed her eyes and summoned the craft.

  Some said that the wind she summoned had a life of its own, and that it wandered the world as it chose until being called forth on each new moon. Others insisted that each time it came, it drifted to the Rotunda from a secret sanctuary nestled somewhere among the dark peaks of the enchanted Tolenka Mountains. Only the Pon Q’tar knew for certain, yet it remained a part of the legend that they refused to share. Nor did it matter, for no one dared to question the clerics’ wisdom.

  Wherever it came from, the wind always served the same purpose: It fanned the embers at the base of the flame, allowing the flame to burn brightly again for another full moon.

  As she called the craft, Julia watched the familiar azure glow fill the Rotunda. She heard the haunting wind arrive and swirl down through the occulum. As it neared her, it parted the folds of her white gown and stirred her hair. Soon the gathering tempest howled so loudly that it hurt her ears and its power nearly took her off her feet. Then the wind turned to fan the flame’s embers.

  As Julia struggled to control the tempest, her arms shook and her power began to ebb. Soon the embers at the base of the flame glowed brightly again, as if they had been reborn.

  The flame strengthened and grew higher. With the last of her powers Julia forced the wind to caress the embers one last time. Then she slumped to the floor. Its job done, the wind whistled hauntingly as it soared back through the occulum and left the Rotunda for parts unknown.

  Julia heard footsteps approaching. As she struggled to her knees, several other Priory virgins came to help her up. Agrippina Sertorius, Julia’s most trusted Priory Sister, gave her a worried look. Unlike when they appeared in public, inside the Rotunda the women were allowed to go without their veils. Agrippina was five years Julia’s junior, with brown eyes and short red ringlets.

  “It is done?” Agrippina asked.

  Julia looked back at the flame to see that it again roared with life, nearly reaching the occulum. She nodded to her friend. Over the next month the embers surrounding the base of the flame would again dim and the flame would fade, forcing Julia once again to perform the sacred rite of the wind. The ritual had been performed thousands upon thousands of times here in this same place, by Priory Femiculi too numerous to name.

  Because the Priory virgins were not protected by time enchantments, Julia would one day become too old to perform the ritual. When that day came, Agrippina Sertorius or another Priory virgin like her would be selected to become the reigning Femiculi. According to custom, Julia would be freed from her duties to live her final days as a highborn Rustannican krithian, with a substantial pension to provide for her living expenses and if she chose, she would be free to marry.

  “Let us help you back to your quarters,” Agrippina said. “We need our rest—you above all. Vespasian’s meeting is to start in less than eight hours. He will want our counsel.”

  Julia nodded. “I know,” she said. As she recalled the day’s occurrences, a pensive look crossed her face. “Vespasian seemed different today,” she said. “Did you notice? I suspect that he has some important issue that he wishes to discuss.” She sighed. “In any event, we will know soon enough.”

  Agrippina and three other Priory Sisters escorted Julia to the single doorway that led to their quarters. Julia paused to confirm that the flame roared strongly in the center of the beautifully constructed dome.

  Satisfied, she left the Rotunda at last.

  CHAPTER IV

  AS TRISTAN, SHAILIHA, AND JESSAMAY RUSHED TOWARD the Archives entryway, the intense white light coming through the open doors nearly blinded them. Groping about with his free arm, Tristan found one of Shailiha’s hands and gripped it.

  Just then the wondrous light began to dim. His vision clearing, Tristan saw the crippled wizard Faegan sitting in his wooden chair on wheels, his arms upraised. His face showed intense concentration; sweat had broken out on his brow. His arms shook from the great effort he was expending as he summoned the craft.

  Aeolus, Wigg, and Abbey stood by Faegan’s chair, their arms also raised.

  “What’s happening?” Tristan whispered to Jessamay. He let go of Shailiha’s hand and quietly sheathed his dreggan.

  “I don’t know,” Jessamay whispered back.

  After tense moments, the azure glow vanished at last, and Tristan gazed in amazement at the scene before him.

  Books, scrolls, and parchments had been ripped from their shelves and covered the first floor in massive piles. Tristan couldn’t begin to imagine how long it might take to set things right.

  Tristan beckoned Jessamay and Shailiha to follow him. Trying as best they could not to trample any documents, they slowly walked over to where Wigg, Aeolus, and Abbey stood beside Faegan’s chair.

  “What happened here?” Tristan asked.

  Faegan twisted around and looked sadly into Tristan’s face. The ancient wizard wore his familiar black robe. His unruly gray hair lay parted down the middle and reached nearly to his shoulders. Much of his face was covered by a shaggy gray beard, and his lustrous green eyes seemed to bore straight into Tristan’s soul. The prince could see that the normally mischievous wizard had been
deeply sobered.

  “I don’t know exactly what,” Faegan answered. “But I believe I know why.”

  Faegan swiveled his chair around and pointed to the wall on the far side of the room. Everyone turned to look.

  Tristan knew that Faegan had brought the Tome—the primary treatise outlining the study of the craft—and the Scroll of the Vigors and the Scroll of the Vagaries here to the Archives for safekeeping. The wizard had used the craft to magically secure them within a five-sided transparent wizard’s box high against the marble wall. Only the Conclave mystics had been entrusted with the complex formula that could dismantle the dimly glowing box.

  Tristan had approved of Faegan’s elegant solution. To the best of Faegan’s knowledge, the azure box was impervious to everything except the spell that allowed for its dismantling. But something had gotten through. More than the box was illuminated. The Tome and both scrolls were glowing with the same bright white light that had only moments earlier engulfed the chamber. As Tristan gazed at the unprecedented glow, trepidation grew in his heart.

  Fascinated, Shailiha stepped nearer. “What is that light?” she breathed.

  Wigg shook his head. He was dressed in his customary gray robe. His iron-gray hair was pulled back from his widow’s peak into a braid that fell down his back. Despite his advanced age, his tall form remained lean and muscular. His strong hands were gnarled and elegantly expressive, and his craggy face and aquamarine eyes showed deep concern. Sighing, he placed his hands into the opposite sleeves of his robe, then turned to the princess.

  “As Faegan said, we don’t know,” he answered. “Logic dictates that the glow coming from the Tome and the Scrolls has something to do with whatever made such a mess of this room. It took a mighty force to do this. But only the Afterlife knows how or why.”

  Wigg turned his gaze back toward the glowing box that held the three precious documents. “We can only hope that the box protected them,” he added. “Luckily, it seems to be intact. And except for the glow, they appear unharmed. But I suppose that there is only one way to know for sure.”