Robert Newcomb: The Gates of Dawn

Each hallway or room was more beautiful than the last. The walls, ceilings, and floors were of the finest, highly polished marble. Wall sconces and chandeliers gave off a delicate, ethereal hue, offsetting the massiveness that might otherwise seem overbearing. Each of the rooms was elaborately decorated; the doors were hand carved of solid mahogany. The prince sighed inwardly. He doubted he would ever come close to seeing the interiors of even the slightest fraction of these rooms.

Before actually living here, Tristan had never known that there were so many different colors of marble. Each of the hallways had its own distinct color; the entire spectrum was represented. Just now Tristan and Shannon were walking up a hallway of the most delicate violet, shot through with streaks of indigo.

As the heels of his black knee boots rang out against the marble floors, the prince’s mind went back to the day he had first been brought here by Wigg, the day he had been dressed down by his father and the entire Directorate. Hundreds upon hundreds of talented consuls had been in the Redoubt then, scurrying to and fro, each wearing a dark blue robe. Now the emptiness that filled these halls brought more than a hint of sadness.

So much had changed since that day. Even Tristan himself had been changed irrevocably. After he had unexpectedly used his untrained endowed powers to help defeat the Coven, his very blood had altered in color from red to azure. Azure—the color of the various manifestations of the craft. The amazing change to his blood had first been discovered after his battle to the death with Kluge, the commander of the Minions of Day and Night.

“We are unsure of what other changes might occur within you, should you continue to try to make further use of your still untrained gift, or continue to wear the stone,” the wizards had said as they removed the Paragon, the bloodred jewel that empowered endowed blood, from around his neck.

He had been forced reluctantly to agree. But he still had a great many questions to ask the old wizards, especially now that his sister was well. And he intended to get his answers very soon.

He already knew something of the Vigors, the beneficent side of the craft to which the wizards had devoted their lives. And he had seen firsthand the evil of the Vagaries, the darker, more damning side. He had learned and come to accept that he was the male of the Chosen Ones, supposedly meant to lead his nation forth to a new age. He knew that he was the only person destined to read all three volumes of the Tome—the Vigors, the Vagaries, and the Prophecies. His mind whirled with the complexities of it all. His supremely endowed blood constantly called out to him to begin his education in the craft. But still the wizards put off his training.

At last Shannon stopped before one of the massive mahogany doors that lined the violet hallway. Moving from one foot to the other, he looked up at the prince.

“They await you inside,” he said anxiously. “I will now make sure that someone goes to watch over Princess Shailiha and the baby.” He seemed eager to be gone.

Watching the gnome waddle back down the corridor, Tristan realized that he was standing in an area of the Redoubt with which he was entirely unfamiliar. One corner of his mouth came up. Not knowing exactly where he was hardly seemed unusual, considering the size of this place. What did perplex him was why the wizards would require his presence so suddenly. He opened the great door.

The room he entered was large, and elaborately decorated. The walls, ceiling, and floor were of a very rare and elegant Ephyran marble, dark blue swirled with the lightest of gray. Numerous oil lamps and chandeliers added to the soft glow of the fire burning in the light blue marble fireplace in the right-hand wall.

Wigg, seated at a long table, looked up calmly from the volume he had been reading. The wizard’s gray hair fell from a widow’s peak at his forehead only down to the nape of his neck. The customary braided wizard’s tail had been cut off during his imprisonment by the Coven less than one month ago. Tristan smiled inside, knowing that Wigg would let it grow back out of respect for his dead friends, the deceased wizards of the Directorate. The bright, aquamarine eyes in the craggy face had lost nothing of their intensity, and the gray robe of his once-lofty office draped loosely over a body that remained muscular, protected from old age and disease by time enchantments.

As always, Faegan was seated in his rough-hewn chair on wheels. His legs, useless as a result of torture by the Coven, dangled down over the edge of the seat. His worn, black robe seemed too large for him, and the wild salt-and-pepper hair that was parted down the middle of his head fell almost to his shoulders. His eyes were an unusually intense, green-flecked gray. His impossibly dark blue cat, Nicodemus, sat patiently in his lap.

Then Tristan noticed the fourth person in the room. He automatically backed away, drawing his dreggan from its scabbard. The deadly song of the dreggan’s blade resounded reassuringly through the room, bouncing briefly off the marble walls before finally, reluctantly fading away.

“You can put that away,” Wigg said wryly. His right eyebrow arched up into its familiar expression of admonishment. “He is in no condition to harm any of us. He is, in fact, a consul.”

Embarrassed, Tristan replaced the dreggan into its scabbard. He then slowly walked to where the inert figure reclined on an overstuffed sofa that sat along one wall. The prince looked down into the face of the battered consul who lay before him.

The man on the couch was a little older than the prince—perhaps thirty-five New Seasons of Life. He seemed to be in a very bad way. His dark blue robe was ripped and dirty, and only partially hid the fact that the poor fellow was apparently half starved. His blond hair was in knots; his face was bruised and bloodied; his cheeks were hollowed from malnutrition. Despite his condition, he was still a good-looking man.

Tristan bent over to grasp the man’s right arm. Lifting it up, he slid the sleeve up to view the right shoulder. He saw what he was looking for. The tattoo of the Paragon, in bright red, identified the man as a consul of the Redoubt. Satisfied, the prince slid the sleeve back down and gently placed the arm back alongside the body. Then he turned back to Wigg.

“As I mentioned, he is a consul,” Wigg said rather quietly.

“Do you know him?” Tristan asked.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” Wigg answered. “His name is Joshua, and despite his relative youth he is one of the more gifted and powerful of the Brotherhood. He was one of those in charge of the squads I sent out to hunt down the stalkers and harpies, just before the arrival of the Coven. As far as I know, he is the only one to have ever returned.” Wigg closed the book that lay in front of him. Placing his hands into the opposite sleeves of his gray robe, he suddenly seemed lost in his own thoughts.

“And you, Faegan,” Tristan asked the wizard in the chair. “Do you know him, too?”

“No, Tristan, nor do I know any of the others of that brotherhood,” Faegan replied in his gravelly voice. A look of mild envy crossed his face. “The Redoubt is an entirely new concept to me, since it was formed after the Sorceresses’ War and I was already living in Shadowood by then. But I am truly interested in what this man will have to say when we revive him.” The elder of the wizards sat quietly, thinking to himself, and Tristan was reminded that unlike Wigg, who was used to being in the Redoubt, Faegan was still overwhelmed by the place and what it represented. Being envious of another wizard’s knowledge was something Faegan was not used to, and sometimes it showed.