CHAPTER XXXIV
SITTING AT HIS DESK IN HIS PRIVATE QUARTERS ABOARD theTammerland, Wigg heard the ship’s bell, telling him that it was midafternoon. Putting down his quill, he stopped to listen. Wafting through the open starboard windows from three decks above, the bell’s chimes were reassuring yet frustrating. Tristan had been right when he said that time had no meaning in this underground labyrinth of azure water, rock walls, and bright radiance stones. Despite all that he had experienced during his more than three centuries of life, Wigg was forced to admit that the absolute lack of nighttime was something truly extraordinary.
After placing the quill into its holder and closing the leather-bound volume before him, Wigg put the book to one side. Since the final defeat of the Coven he had been writing almost daily in his private journal, recording all the amazing things that he had witnessed. Part of him wished that he had been doing so since he was a boy, because the idea of being able to revisit any previous day of his choosing held a certain attraction for him. But as with so many of life’s projects, the needed resolve had come late. Because his life had been so hectic in recent years, his journal often went unmarked. But it was a worthwhile project, he reasoned, even if parts of it were written days or weeks later. He smiled wryly as he thought about Faegan and the crippled wizard’s gift of Consummate Recollection. He had no need for such a mundane tool as a daily journal.
As Wigg rose from his desk, his burns unexpectedly snapped at him again. Wincing, he nearly cried out. He took a deep breath and called the craft, forcing the pain back into its lair. Only then did he walk gingerly to the room’s starboard side and recline on the upholstered bench lying beneath the row of open windows. Reaching out to the table before him, he poured a glass of wine, then turned to gaze outside.
TheTammerland and theEphyra were making good time, or so he supposed. But because the monolithic rock walls surrendered few clues about how fast the Black Ships traveled, gauging the ships’ speed seemed as pointless an endeavor as trying to measure the passing time. Like the others aboard, Wigg found that sleeping in perpetual light was nearly impossible. Three days had passed since the channel walls had arisen and Tristan’s little fleet had escaped Khristos and the Blood Vipers. Because of the constant light and the mind-numbing sameness of the scenery, those three days had seemed like three weeks.
Tristan kept ordering Night Witch patrols out ahead of the ships, a decision with which Wigg heartily agreed. But with the return of each patrol the report was always the same: Nothing lies before us except this endless channel. Even so, everyone kept hoping that the devoted witches would sight something that might give the conclave an inkling about where they were headed and what they were facing. Gingerly placing his legs atop the bench, Wigg sighed and took another sip of the excellent wine.
Just now Astrid was piloting theEphyra. Jessamay was topside, piloting theTammerland from the comfort of an upholstered chair near the ship’s bow. Wigg smiled again as he supposed that the ever watchful Tyranny was surely standing by Jessamay’s side, second-guessing every course adjustment the sorceresses made.
Although her burns were worse then Wigg’s, Jessamay insisted on fulfilling her share of the piloting duties. So far there had been no mishaps, but the rocky walls always loomed near, and not one of the four mystic pilots could afford to let his or her guard down when empowering the vessels. It was exhausting work, and Wigg knew in his heart that it would be a miracle if the ships didn’t eventually strike the walls, or-Afterlife forbid-collide with one another.
As soon as the ships left the waves, Minion shipwrights had performed airborne inspections of the ships’ hulls. Everyone was relieved when the warriors reported that they saw nothing suspicious. The ever-skeptical Wigg had insisted that one of them carry him in her arms and let him see for himself, but even the First Wizard could find no apparent damage.
Still, Wigg remained concerned. He knew that these first inspections might mean little, for if azure water had seeped into the ships’ timbers, it could be doing damage sight unseen. Because there was no way to be certain, all he could do was wait and continue to order regular inspections. Of perhaps even greater concern was the supposedly great distance to Shashida-if indeed that was where they were headed. But other worries also gnawed at the old wizard-concerns that had less to do with the perpetual light, the monotonous view, or the state of the ships’ hulls.
Like Tristan, Wigg was bone-tired and sick of seeing so much death and destruction. The three centuries since the end of the Sorceresses’ War had given him a long time to reflect. Then the Coven had unexpectedly returned, and with them yet another period of violence, political uncertainty, and upheaval in the craft that had persisted almost without pause right up to the present day. Although he tried his best not to show it, the defeat of the Coven and the powerful Vagaries servants who followed them had taken their toll on him. There had been little time in which to simply laugh, live, and love-the truly important things that make life worth living. Moreover, he adored Abbey and missed her keenly, every passing day forcing him to wonder whether he would ever see her again.
But even these concerns paled when compared with the singular worry that had troubled him from the moment the subtle matter had been so unexpectedly released in the Redoubt and tempted him and his friends into this strange quest. More than anything, he worried about what they might find in Shashida and what effect it would have on Tristan.
Wigg was not Tristan and Shailiha’s father. Even so, since their births he had carefully watched theJin’Sai andJin’Saiou grow to adulthood. He had done all that he could to shape their values and beliefs according to the principles of the Vigors, and had he been their real father he could not be prouder. He had witnessed their nearly simultaneous births while using the craft to help their mother, Morganna, deal with her pain, and he had comforted Nicholas I as he watched his wife suffer. As had been foretold in the Tome, an azure glow surrounded the blessed event, assuring all that the Chosen Ones had finally come. And since the deaths of the king, the queen, and the other members of the Directorate of Wizards on that tragic day of Tristan’s aborted coronation, Wigg knew that he alone could best serve as the Chosen Ones’ mentor. As his responsibility grew, so did his worry for them.
This is what vexes me so, he realized-the loss of so many loved ones and friends to the horrors of the Vagaries. The loss of the Chosen Ones would be felt by us all, to be sure, but such a catastrophe would tear my heart in two.
In truth he had always worried more for Tristan than for Shailiha, and there were ample reasons why. Tristan was the impulsive one, the headstrong one, the one who always challenged every answer with yet another question. Shailiha was more thoughtful and better able to harness her emotions. She was every bit as capable a leader as her brother had come to be-perhaps even more so, given her greater proclivity to think before acting. But because Tristan was prophesied to be the first of them to try and bring peace to the warring nations of Rustannica and Shashida, Wigg’s worry for him was the greatest.
Every soul aboard these two ships was risking his or her life to find Shashida, and not knowing the nature of its culture was also deeply unsettling. If the Ones truly were the world’s greatest masters of the Vigors, it should follow that they would be compassionate and understanding. But what if they were not, and their only interest in Tristan was some arcane use of his blood to win their terrible war for them? Wigg wondered. Could this be what the Tome referred to when it said that Tristan’s blood would serve some higher purpose than had ever been seen before? After so many aeons of war, had the Ones become like thePon Q’tar, and were they now willing to win at any price-including Tristan’s death? Or in the end would they-
Suddenly an urgent pounding was heard on the doors. Pushing aside his thoughts, Wigg placed his wine glass on the table.
“Enter!” he called out.
The doors parted and Scars stood there. Without invitation the first mate hurried into the room and approached Wigg, a concerned look on his face.
Wigg sat up quickly. “What is it?” he asked. “Has something happened?”
“One of the Night Witch patrols found something ahead in the channel,” Scars answered. “Tristan wants you to come right away.”
Wigg came to his feet, his eagerness temporarily brushing aside his pain. “Is it Shashida?” he asked breathlessly.
“I wasn’t told,” Scars answered. “Come-we must hurry!”
