As Tristan approached another corner, the pair of warriors on guard there snapped their heels and came to quick attention. Tristan gave them a cursory nod. The warriors’ dark wings were folded behind their backs and their leather body armor shone in the light of the hallway torches. Great curved swords known as dreggans-like the one Tristan carried-hung in scabbards at their hips.
Tristan much admired the Minions and he had relied heavily on them to help him win many bloody victories, both in Eutracia and in Parthalon. But they were not the massively imposing force that they had once been. At the height of their power they had numbered nearly half a million. But losses from so many deadly battles had cut their ranks to fewer than sixty thousand. It weighed on his heart to realize that the warriors might not be much help as he struggled to fulfill his newly crystallized destiny. Even if a way over the Tolenkas could be found, there simply weren’t enough Minions remaining to confront the vast Rustannican Imperial Order.
During his time in the Borderlands, from afar he had watched a lone Shashidan force trudging through the snow, only to see it swallowed up by a great chasm that suddenly formed in the earth. To his amazement, the single force had easily numbered one hundred thousand troops. Logic dictated that the Rustannican forces were equally large, if not larger. Moreover, with their dark skin and great wings, Minion warriors would be impossible to disguise, making their use more difficult. It was becoming even more apparent that if Tristan and his followers entered Rustannica, their tactics would have to rely on stealth and cunning rather than brute force.
But the situation wasn’t altogether bleak, he reminded himself. Many advantages and much craft knowledge had been garnered during the Conclave’s ongoing battles against those who would have the Vagaries triumph.
Most importantly, the Conclave was finally in possession of the fabled Scroll of the Vigors and Scroll of the Vagaries. The Shashidan mystics had granted to Faegan the formula allowing him to use the precious indices to the scrolls. As the Conclave’s chief craft researcher, the eccentric wizard could effectively search through the scrolls’ vast teachings to pinpoint any forestallment formula the scrolls held. The forestallment could then be imbued into the blood of an endowed person, allowing immediate access to any gift the spell offered. Although part of the Vigors Scroll had been accidentally burned away during Wulfgar’s first attempt to invade Eutracia, Tristan believed that its remaining spells would prove a great help in the challenging days to come.
Moreover, the Conclave’s newfound ability to change blood signature lean had allowed the rehabilitation of the Consuls of the Redoubt, the lesser wizards who had once fallen prey to Nicholas’ dark influence. The consuls’ daughters, who had been secretly learning the Vigors at Fledgling House, a castle tucked away to the north at the base of the Tolenkas, had also found their way home to the Redoubt.
Along with the acolytes-the sisterhood of the craft that was the counterpart of the Consuls-the Redoubt bustled with magic students and practitioners of both sexes. Nathan, father of the fledgling Mallory, had been named Lead Consul. And Aeolus, a wizard who had once served with Wigg on the late Directorate of Wizards, had left his martial training school in Tammerland to become a full-fledged member of the Conclave.
Four of the massive Black Ships used during the recent attack on Serena’s stronghold in Parthalon had survived and were being repaired in Parthalon. Tyranny, the Conclave’s privateer and commander of the ships, would soon bring them home. The small fleet would then be moored at the Cavalon Delta to await Tristan’s orders. Tristan was eager to have the ships return, because he guessed that they might somehow prove instrumental in crossing the Tolenkas.
Tristan weighed these things and many more as he continued on toward the palace kitchens. Much had changed, he knew. In some ways, the forces protecting the Vigors east of the Tolenkas had never been stronger. But in other ways, especially given the dwindling numbers of Minion warriors, things had never been more worrying.
Rounding another corner, he saw candlelight framing the edges of the kitchen doors. From behind the doors came tittering laughter. Curious about who else was about at this hour, he pushed open the doors and walked in.
To his mild surprise, Shailiha and the sorceress Jessamay sat at a great butcher’s table in the center of the room. Shawna the Short was also there, sweeping the floor and mumbling to herself. As Tristan approached, Shailiha and Jessamay flashed him mischievous grins, and Shailiha beckoned him to come and sit with them.
Removing his weapons and placing them on the table, Tristan took a stool between the two women. He had never liked the formality of the palace dining rooms, and always preferred taking his meals in the kitchen. The notion suddenly crossed his mind that when the Conclave members took their evening meals together, it should be here. Then he realized that Wigg, stickler for royal decorum that he was, would surely protest.
Fires burned quietly in several large brick wall hearths, their orange-red flames welcoming him into the room. Wonderful smells teased his senses. Dozens of shining copper pots and pans hung from racks set low enough for Shawna the Short to reach them easily. A massive wine cellar lay behind an iron and glass door set into one wall. The cellar’s thousands of dusty bottles lay in racks, perpetually cooled by one of Wigg’s spells.
The table was laid with what looked like a feast: roasted ham, sliced cheese, vegetables, and brown bread were piled on trays. Beside them was a stone container filled to the brim with the spicy ground mustard for which the Eutracian province of Ephyra was famous. Two large pitchers of ale sat on the table, along with some empty pewter plates and tankards. Tristan knew perfectly well that this unexpected meal was Shawna’s doing. Gratefully, he built a thick sandwich and filled a tankard. Shailiha gave Shawna a quick glance and slid her stool closer to her brother’s.
“It seems that we have been found out,” she whispered.
“What do you mean?” Tristan asked.
“Jessamay and I decided to come here and get a snack,” she answered. “It seems that she doesn’t like lamb any more than you or I. Anyway, we thought that we’d be clever and raid the kitchen without Shawna’s knowing.”
Tristan laughed. “There’s never much chance of that,” he answered.
Jessamay smiled ruefully. “No sooner did we get here than Shawna came bustling in to do some late-night cleaning.” Raising an eyebrow, she looked over at the busy gnome. “Just watching her exhausts me! I beg the Afterlife-doesn’t that little woman ever stop?”
After taking another bite of his sandwich and washing it down with more ale, Tristan shook his head. “Not that I’ve seen,” he replied with a grin.
“Anyway, after we put up with her fussing about how we should have eaten more of her lamb, she finally relented and put this food out for us,” Shailiha said. “I suggest that you eat well this time, or we’ll never hear the end of it.”
Tristan took another swig of ale, then smiled. “You’re probably right,” he said. “Anyway, I’ve always thought that simple food was the best. And to that noble end I will be as gluttonous as humanly possible.”
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
