Traax bowed his head slightly. "I live to serve," he said. Then his strong, rather menacing-looking smile emerged again. "It shall all be as you order, Jin'Sai."

On hearing himself called that for the first time, Tristan sighed and shook his head. He had never been one for titles, and now it seemed that still another one had been heaped on him. He looked over to Shailiha, and saw her smile slightly.

"And for your part, what will you be doing?" Tristan asked the two wizards.

"What we have been doing for the last week," Wigg answered. "Specifically, trying to find a way to combat the Forestallment gifted to Wulfgar that will result in the destruction of the orb. But I must tell all of you here that given the quality of his blood and the still-unknown nature of the various gifts he has surely been imbued with, the likelihood of our stopping him will be remote, at best. And if we fail, all that we know and love may soon vanish." As he finished speaking, a tense silence descended over the table.

Tristan looked over at Traax. "Go now," he ordered. "Take the fleet out, but leave a sufficient number of troops here to defend the palace, should it come to that. Once at sea, follow my directions to the letter. I will await your word."

Nodding, Traax stood. He walked a short distance to the side of the balcony, snapped open his wings, and took to the air.

Looking down at the scroll on the table, Tristan took a deep breath. Rising, he stretched his long legs and walked over to the balcony wall. He kept his dark eyes on Traax as the loyal warrior became smaller and smaller against the backdrop of the sky, then finally vanished.

He knew that if they were not exceedingly fortunate, they would lose this fight. Then the warrior K'jarr crossed his mind again. There might yet be a way-one that he had not discussed with the wizards.

Suddenly, despite the loved ones sitting just behind him at the table, the newly anointed Jin'Sai felt very much alone.

CHAPTER

Sixty-four

T he baby girl coughed yet again as she lay struggling for her life in the plain, wooden crib. As she did, the woman in the robe sensed that this gentle but sinister convulsion would be the child's last. Long past grief, the baby's mother and father huddled helplessly near their child, their eyes red and crying as they watched her die.

Closing her eyes, the woman called upon the craft yet again in her efforts to help the infant breathe, at the same time trying to make sure the familiar azure aura did not form, thereby alerting the parents of her secret abilities. But she knew she was losing this battle, and the end would come soon.

Almost as quickly as she had thought it, the child's deep, brown eyes closed, her soft eyelashes fluttering for the last time, like tiny butterflies' wings. Then came the delicate death rattle from her exhausted lungs, and her head slipped quietly over to one side. The woman slowly stood back up.

With tears in her eyes, the woman named Adrian lifted the worn blanket up over the baby's face. Turning to look at the parents, she shook her head sadly.

Refusing to believe, the frantic mother snatched the dead child up in her arms, as if by holding her close, she could somehow imbue her with new life. Adrian left the mother to her grief and walked to the father. His name was Inar, and he hadn't eaten or slept for three days. Near collapse, he leaned his head against the wall and sobbed openly.

"Please know that I did all I could," Adrian said softly.

Reaching out from the sleeve of her hooded robe, Adrian gently touched his hand. It felt cold and lifeless, just as his heart now surely did. Tears running down his face, the father could only nod.

Knowing there was nothing left to be said, Adrian quietly left the room. Going to the cottage door, she let herself out onto the street, where a light rain had begun to fall. She walked to where her horse was tied, pulling up the hood of her robe as she went.

As she mounted her roan gelding, she took a final look back at the modest cottage. Smoke wisped up out of the chimney, and she knew that the traditional black silk ribbon of mourning would soon adorn the door.

What a difference only a few seconds could make, she thought. A body could be warm and alive one moment, and then, in the twinkle of an eye, it was not. After closing her eyes for a time, she slowly opened them again and turned her horse up the slick, cobblestoned street.

Had the child's parents somehow had the occasion to see Adrian's upper left arm, they would have noticed her tattoo: a square, bloodred image of the Paragon. Still, that would not have entirely revealed Adrian's secret, the one she had promised never to divulge since the age of five, when the wizards of the Directorate had granted her father's humble request that his only daughter be accepted for training in the craft. But Adrian was more than simply another person of endowed blood.

Adrian of the House of Brandywyne was of the craft, and a graduate of a place known only to a privileged few. A place called Fledgling House.

Listening to her horse's shoes strike the cobblestones, she regarded the drab city of Tanglewood as it passed slowly by. It was not one of Eutracia's more prosperous places, and probably never would be. And since the unexpected return of the Coven of sorceresses and the deaths of the wizards of the Directorate, she feared the city's plight would only worsen.

The houses in this section were made of dark wood and had shabby thatched roofs. They all seemed to look the same somehow, and had a crooked, fragile, ramshackle quality about them. It was almost as if they needed to lean up against one another just to remain upright, and if the first of them fell, the rest would also give up the effort and tumble down with it.

She had been trying to save the dying infant all night, and it was now just after dawn, the rising sun smothered somewhere just over the horizon among inky, dark rain clouds. Around her, Tanglewood seemed to be slowly waking up. Low, muffled conversation could be heard here and there, and smoke was rising from the tops of the chimneys. The occasional chamber pot could be seen held out of a window, its contents unceremoniously dumped on the nearby ground. Men in worn work clothes began appearing from doorways to kiss their wives good-bye and go about their daily labors. The enticing aromas of peasant food-plain, but good-hung in the damp morning air.

Adrian's stomach growled, reminding her of how long it had been since she had eaten. Trying to save the baby girl had taken all her strength, and she was exhausted. She reached into one pocket of her robe and counted her kisa. There should be enough, she reasoned. She would stop at the first inn she came across, allowing herself a rest before returning to her village.

Sometimes she felt very alone in the world, despite the number of people she always seemed to encounter who needed her help. At thirty Seasons of New Life she found herself neither young nor old. She was not yet married, but that did not trouble her too much. And she had been an only child, her mother dying while giving her life. Her father had not visited her modest cottage-the one he had built for her with his own two hands-for nearly a year now, and because of that she feared greatly for him. He was a consul of the Redoubt, and it had often been said that he knew the lead wizard personally. But for some time it had been widely rumored that Wigg was dead, along with all of the other wizards of the Directorate. A shudder went through her as she wondered anew about the fate of her father and the other members of his discipline.

She had not come across any of the Brotherhood for some time now, and that was unusual. She would certainly have known them, just as she always had, by their simple dark blue robes, quiet manners, and the tattoo of the Paragon on their shoulders, should any of them deign to reveal it to her. It seemed something sinister had happened not only to the Directorate but to the Brotherhood as well, leaving her and her sister acolytes lost and alone in the craft.