Robert Newcomb: The Gates of Dawn

“Yes,” Tristan answered. “I hope to go back one day soon to visit the grave. I would like to return the body to Eutracia, and bury it with the rest of our family.” A short silence followed.

“I forgive you, Tristan,” she said finally, softly.

“You forgive me?” he asked, confused.

Swallowing hard, Shailiha looked down. The next words were going to be difficult for both of them. But she wanted her brother to be absolutely sure of how she felt. “I forgive you,” she said. “I forgive you for killing our father. In fact, there truly is nothing to be forgiven. For I know from Wigg that you were forced to do it. That father even ordered you to do it. I forgive you, and I shall love you always.”

There were simply no words. He just continued to sit there in the moment with his sister—the twin he had come so close to losing forever. His heart was so glad that she and her baby were still alive.

Finally she gave him the impish smile she was so famous for, at the same time reaching out to grasp the gold medallion around his neck—the one that had been a gift from their parents, just before his coronation. It carried the lion and the broadsword, the heraldry of the House of Galland.

“So you still wear this,” she said happily. “I’m glad. And it seems that I have acquired one of my own.” She reached down to touch the exact duplicate of his medallion that lay around her neck. “Although I haven’t the faintest clue of how I acquired it,” she added.

“Nor do Wigg, Faegan, or I,” Tristan answered. “But the wizards feel that it may somehow be the physical remnants of the incantation the Coven used upon you. By some unknown means it remained with you, even after the sorceresses’ deaths. The wizards have examined it closely, and say that it is all right for you to continue to wear it. But what is most important about the medallion is that wherever the two of us may go or whatever we may do, all we have to do is to look down to that bit of gold to know that there is still someone in our family who continues to love us.”

Tristan paused for a moment, thinking back to the many times his own medallion had helped keep him going through the hardships of finding his sister and defeating the Coven. “My medallion is what finally saved you, you know,” he said thoughtfully.

“What do you mean?”

“It twinkled in the light, and you saw it. It apparently sparked something in your subconscious just before I was about to be forced to . . . just before I . . .”

Again no words would come. How could he explain to her what Wigg had told him on that fateful day? That he must steel his resolve and kill his own sister. That her mind and soul were still infected with the Coven’s spell, making it impossible for her to come back to Eutracia with them. But just as he was about to bring his dreggan down upon her neck she had recognized the medallion, and blinked.

“Tristan,” she asked, “will you do something for me?”

He narrowed his eyes, pursing his lips in mock ferociousness. “Haven’t I done enough already?”

She smiled, but he saw the underlying sadness in her gaze. “I’m serious,” she said. “I truly do need you to perform a special task for me. Something important.”

“Anything, you know that.”

“Wigg and Faegan tell me that our parents and Frederick are buried a short distance from here. They also say I am still too weak to travel. I would ask you to visit their graves for me, until I can go there myself. Please let the spirits of mother, father, and Frederick know that I live, and that I love them.” She looked with tearful eyes to the child in the crib, and then added, “Let them also know that there is now another of their blood in the world.” She burst into tears.

He took her in his arms. “Of course I’ll go,” he said quietly. “I’ll leave first thing tomorrow.”

Collecting herself, she pulled away a little, tentatively smiling up through her tears. “Wigg and Faegan probably won’t like the idea, you know.” She sniffed. “Whenever they’re together they fuss at each other like a pair of old scullery maids.”

Tristan just couldn’t help it. He laughed long and hard, for the first time in what felt like forever. “That’s the best description of those two I have ever heard!” he exclaimed.

Before he could say more, they heard a soft knock, and the door slowly opened a crack. “Begging your pardon, Tristan, but the two wizards are calling for you,” a voice said, the door opening farther. “They say you are to come at once.”

Shannon the Small stood rather sheepishly in the open doorway. The little gnome was bouncing from one foot to the other, as was his habit when nervous.

Shannon had red hair and a matching beard, and dark, intelligent eyes. He was dressed as usual in a red shirt, blue bibs, black cap, and upturned boots. A corncob pipe stuck out jarringly from between his teeth. The gnome seemed quite anxious to deliver Tristan to the wizards and be done with the entire affair. “They say it is quite urgent,” he added tentatively.

“It’s always urgent with those two.” Tristan winked at Shailiha. He turned to the gnome. “Very well,” he said with a sigh. “I will come.” He turned to his sister to say good-bye.

“You promise, Tristan?” she asked him again. “To do what we talked about?”

He gave her a kiss on the forehead and then stood up, stretching the sleepy muscles in his legs. “Yes, Shai,” he said. “Tomorrow, I promise.”

When he approached the doorway he gave the gnome a serious look. “Once we have reached Wigg and Faegan, please ask your wife to come and sit with the princess,” he said. “I want to make sure the baby is watched over, in case Shailiha falls asleep again.”

“Yes, Prince Tristan,” Shannon answered respectfully.

The prince turned to blow a kiss to his twin sister. After gently closing the door he began to follow the anxious, waddling gnome down the labyrinthine hallways of the Redoubt.

Tristan never ceased to be amazed at the sheer size of the Redoubt of the Directorate—the vast, hidden, interconnecting series of hallways and rooms below what had once been his home, the royal palace. It was only several months ago that he had even learned of the Redoubt’s existence. The only other persons sharing the secret had been the Directorate of Wizards, the lesser wizards called the consuls, who studied here, and his now-deceased parents. How such a huge place could exist, and the comings and goings of such a large order as the consuls be kept such a closely guarded secret, was truly one of the great accomplishments of the wizards.

That accomplishment had proven invaluable for Tristan and his companions. Not only did the Redoubt house most of the nation’s resources for the use of the craft, but it also provided a much-needed hiding place until the situation in Tammerland could be more thoroughly assessed.

Geldon, the Parthalonian hunchbacked ex-slave who had returned to Eutracia with them, had become their eyes and ears out in the world, using his talent at coming and going virtually unnoticed. From what he had learned so far, Tammerland was still a very dangerous place. Lawlessness was commonplace, especially at night.

The prince wanted desperately to leave the Redoubt and see the city for himself. He knew this was something the wizards would vehemently object to. But his twin sister’s request of him to visit the graves in her stead provided him with a perfect excuse. He would go—with or without the approval of Faegan or Wigg. As he anticipated their joined outbursts of protest, one corner of his mouth turned upward into a wry smile.

As he followed Shannon, Tristan took the opportunity to look around, amazed as always at the triumph of subterranean architecture that was the Redoubt of the Directorate. It was built in the form of a wagon wheel, with a large central hub that had once served as a meeting place for the thousands of consuls who had visited and studied here. Outward from the center hub ran the many seemingly endless hallways, connecting at their far ends to the outer edge of the wheel. Smaller hallways connected the larger ones every hundred paces or so, allowing the traveler to reach his destination without the burdensome task of always going to the end of any given spoke, and numerous circular stairways linked the various levels. The subterranean chambers could be dizzying in their vastness.