Upon reaching the foot of the throne dais, Stellan stopped. Gloved hands loosened the ropes of the sack. In one fell motion, he dumped the stinking, infested carcass of some anonymous villager onto the floor of the royal court.
The smell was abominable. Clarysa lost count of how many people averted their faces. Many gagged, others coughed. The Queen placed a delicate hand against her mouth.
“What in the name of the Five Lands is this?” said the King, pointing at the body. Veins bulged in his neck, feeding the fire of his flushed, angry face. “Don’t you have any idea where you are? Is this…crudeness of yours so necessary?” The remark gave Stellan pause, but only for a moment. He held out his right hand and dropped something onto the corpse. It burst into bright flames. Clarysa wondered if it were magick or a simple incendiary device.
Stellan watched the corpse burn for several minutes, his emerald eyes amplified by the greenish glare. Eventually the flesh blackened and began to disintegrate. Then, and only then, did he turn his attention to the King and Queen.
“Fifteen years ago, King Renaudas of the Western Wastes sanctioned the creation of a magickal plague, a disease of the mind that spreads like a fungus and infects the blood. It proliferates quickly and without warning. All it requires is access to an open wound. That’s it. No more, no less.”
Stellan’s hawkish gaze bored into each person before him. “Over time, this contagion will drive a person mad, stoking his or her capacity for violence and aggression. The victim is driven to fight even past the point of death. There is no cure, and it must be stamped out. Period.” Stellan leaned forward, effectively staring down the King. “Either Pestilence will overcome your people, or they will die from the rampaging onslaught of its victims.” He pointed at the pile of ashes on the floor. “On your present course, this is your future–and believe me when I say it does not make exceptions for those of royal blood.”
“But why?” demanded her father. “Why has that demon beast of a king done this?”
“Isn’t it obvious? Pestilence is intended as an agent of control. Infect enough people or animals, and you have an invincible army–soldiers who fear nothing and want nothing but death in their wake. A legion without need for food or shelter. They require neither sleep nor rest, nor reward, nor payment.” Stellan scowled. “Tell me, Your Highness, who would win against such an unstoppable force? You? Your army? No.”
The King stared at him, aghast. Her mother looked pale, switching her gaze back and forth like a frightened bird. Clarysa nearly forgot to breathe as she listened. She clutched the balcony rail tightly. She had heard Stellan speak of the dangers, but this news was too much to fully absorb at once.
“Why come to me now, at this late hour? Why come at all, you damned warlock?” her father made no attempt to hide his ire. “If you knew about this evil fifteen years ago, why didn’t you warn us? What are you trying to hide?”
A wry smile passed across Stellan’s lips. “So you would have trusted me more at age fifteen than you do now, hmm? What about ten years ago? Or five? Would the answer have been any different then?”
The King frowned in concession to Stellan’s point.
“No,” Stellan continued, “I and I alone had to find a way to combat this. My efforts involved many failed experiments. The Arts are not for the faint of heart, or the impatient. Besides, for a while it seemed Pestilence might prove too unpredictable to use as a weapon. Its results were random at best. Time appeared to be on my side.”
“Then what happened?” demanded Leopold. “These recent attacks hardly feel random. And why haven’t we seen this before if it has truly been in our midst as long as you say?”
Muscles bulged in Stellan’s jaw. “You might ask instead why it was so long in coming. Let’s just say you would have tasted its wrath long ago if not for my efforts.”
Clarysa drew her hands to her chest as pride swelled within. Stellan had protected them for nearly all of his life. My darling, why didn’t you say something sooner? She chafed at the impenetrable wall surrounding his heart. She wanted to fling herself at him and beg forgiveness. She wanted to do it right now! But the debate below continued, and she dare not sabotage Stellan’s efforts. Though dramatic and forceful, they were obviously sincere.
Her father was peering at the stalwart sorcerer with obvious misgiving. “How is it that you, and only you, have the knowledge to fight this so-called ‘Pestilence’?”
Stellan’s eyes narrowed. “Unfortunately, I am quite intimate with its origins.”
Edward sneered. “Why, because you had your devil’s hand in its creation?”
The accusation cut deeply. Clarysa pulled at her hair in distress. She should have known Edward would cause strife.
Stellan stepped forward, furrowing his dark brow. “No, I did not,” he said, “but my father, King Renaudas of the Western Wastes, did.”
Clarysa recoiled in shock as a collective gasp arose from the people below. This was certainly news to all of them, and it was quite possible the worst news they could have received. When Stellan had told her his father had been involved with Pestilence, she should have insisted on more information. How could one man possess so many secrets?
Since birth, every Aldebaran citizen had been taught to despise and distrust the sorcerers of the Wastes. Tales told to little ones often recounted how they had the heads of serpents and frequently devoured their young. Adults whispered among themselves how they brokered deals with the Devil himself, and
