But Adrian was a hardy, stalwart woman. And she would continue to uphold her vows, regardless of the nation's plights. She would gladly perform the good deeds she had promised the headmaster and matron of Fledgling House the day they had pronounced her trained and set her and her classmates free at the age of twenty-one.

She had been a proud member of the first such group to be given their tattoos and then sent forth. She had always yearned to return to Fledgling House, to see again the modest, charming castle sitting next to the base of the northern Tolenka Mountains. But she never had. She also longed to see Duncan again-the wizard with the long gray hair who had taught her so much. And Martha, Duncan's wife-the kindly, rotund matron who had always seen to the girls' other needs. She remembered the couple fondly and hoped they were both well. Fledgling House was the only real home she had ever known, and Duncan and Martha were more her parents than her father and late mother had ever been.

Perhaps I will return one day, she thought. When times are not so cruel, and the need for my gifts is not so great.

As she rode along, Adrian clutched an errant lock of her hair that had somehow escaped the hood of her robe and hooked it behind one ear. As she did, she smiled gently to herself. She knew she was not beautiful. But she possessed the strength of heart to know that the quality of her femininity mattered far less than the quality of her service to the craft. What she may have lacked in appearance she more than made up for with not only her intelligence, but with the goodness of her heart.

Adrian was rather short and plain. Her wide, level eyes were deep brown. Her sandy, curly, shoulder-length hair always seemed to be getting in the way. The sleeves of her dark red acolyte's robe fell loosely down around her wrists, and the hem gently swished across the tops of her boots when she walked. A black, knotted cord secured the robe at its middle, its tasseled ends falling down along the outside of her right thigh.

Finally she saw an inn, with a sign proclaiming it the bear and finch. But as she approached it, she felt a strange sensation and pulled her horse up short. Breathing heavily, she began to sweat noticeably, even though it was certainly not warm on the street. She had never felt anything remotely like this. It was not painful. It was more… needful. Yes, she thought. That was the word she was looking for: needful. But needful of what? she asked herself.

As if suddenly possessed, she turned and looked southeast, over the roofs of the houses. Tammerland, she thought. The royal palace was there. She felt compelled to go to the palace. She had never been so drawn to anything in her life.

But visiting the royal residence was forbidden to acolytes. The wizards' punishment for such a transgression was said to be severe. But how could something her heart of hearts was so desperately telling her to do be so very wrong? She didn't know, for what she was experiencing went against every iota of her training. But the urge was irresistible, and she realized that if she did not go, her heart might burst from the longing.

As if in a dream, Adrian found herself turning her horse around and pointing him down the road leading to Tammerland.

She could not know that all her sisters in the craft were experiencing the same thing-being drawn to Tammerland, the country's capital and seat of the craft.

E xhausted, Wigg opened his eyes and lowered his arms. It was just after dawn, and he and Faegan had been working through the night, trying to make use of one of the calculations they had found in the scroll. The lamps of the Redoubt burned brightly, and the Scroll of the Vigors hovered nearby, partially unrolled, glowing with the power of the craft.

"Is it done?" Faegan asked quietly. He sat at a nearby table, in his wheeled chair. Nicodemus lay across his lap, purring contentedly.

"It is as done as I can make it, old friend," the lead wizard answered tiredly. Shuffling his way around the table, he took a seat next to Faegan. "Only time will tell whether it will truly work."

Faegan decided to change the subject. "Have you talked to them yet?" he asked. "Have you told Tristan and Celeste about the warning we found this morning?"

"No," Wigg answered with a sigh. "Frankly, I don't know how to bring myself to do it. They love each other so much…"

Faegan's face darkened, and he rolled his chair a bit closer. "You cannot wait any longer, Wigg!" he said sternly. "You know it as well as I! I will do the deed for you, if you cannot. But either way, they must be told. I know it will break their hearts, and that they have already suffered far more loss than any two people should ever have to endure. But we owe it to them, nonetheless."

The lead wizard looked down at his hands, as if wishing to somehow avoid the issue entirely. A tear came to one of his eyes. Tristan and Celeste had both been through so much already, he thought. How could he do this to them? Still, for the good of the craft, he had to.

Finding his resolve, Wigg stood. He walked over to one corner of the room and tugged resolutely on a velvet pull cord. In a few moments the expected knock came on the massive, double doors. With a word from Wigg they opened, and a Minion warrior appeared. Upon entering the room, he clicked his heels together.

"I live to serve," he said.

Wigg looked back at Faegan, but knew he would win no reprieve from his old friend. Faegan glared back at him sternly and nodded. His mind finally made up, Wigg turned back to the obediently waiting warrior.

"Bring the Jin'Sai and my daughter here at once," he said simply.

The warrior clicked his heels again and promptly left in search of the prince.

Wigg walked sadly back to the table, sat down heavily next to Faegan, and waited in silence.

CHAPTER

Sixty-five

W hen the strong, familiar knock came on the door, Wigg stiffened. Looking over at Faegan, he took a deep breath, then glanced back toward the doors again.

"Enter," he said simply.

The prince and Celeste walked in. For some unknown reason, Tristan seemed especially eager to see them. Removing his weapons from his shoulder, he slung them over the back of one of the chairs and took a place next to Wigg's daughter at the table.

Taking a deep breath, Wigg looked over at them. "I'm glad you're here," he said quietly. "We need to speak with you. There is something I must-"

"And I need to speak to you," Tristan interrupted excitedly. "Had you not asked for me, I would have sought you out myself."

"What is it?" Wigg asked. "Is something wrong?"

"I have an idea," Tristan answered quickly. "And I'm afraid that whatever you wanted to say will have to wait for the moment. What I have to tell you is vitally important. But first, please tell me-have the two of you found any possible way to stop Wulfgar?"

Sitting back in his chair, Wigg raised his eyebrow. "No," he said. "And time grows short."

Reaching into a pocket of his trousers, Tristan took something out. He gently placed it on the table. "This may be our answer," he said softly. "I was reminded of it yesterday, during our meeting on the balcony."

Faegan looked at the item on the table, then back over at the prince. "Of course we recognize it," he said, as he stroked Nicodemus. "But I still do not understand what you have in mind."

"You told us yesterday that the orbs cannot be coaxed out over the sea. And also that if we could keep Wulfgar's fleet of demonslavers from reaching the coast, we would have a much better chance of stopping him from destroying the Orb of the Vigors, correct?"

"Yes, that's true," Wigg answered, his curiosity growing. "But what are you driving at?"