Wigg lay back into the luxurious sheets, thinking. "I can only hope that if I find Wulfgar, circumstances will not make it necessary for me to kill him," he said in a low voice. "It is an order from my queen that has plagued me for decades, and I don't think my heart could survive it."

They lay there together quietly for a time, listening to the wind.

"So many secrets," Wigg finally said, half to himself. "And each of them more a burden than a blessing, I assure you."

Abbey smiled knowingly. "And still so many you have yet to share with us, I'm sure."

"Oh, yes," Wigg answered simply. "Many secrets indeed. There is still so much that Tristan, Shailiha, and especially Wulfgar do not know about themselves. Things that only time will allow me to teach them. And time is running out."

"And what about our secret?" Abbey asked. "The one we formed here this night. Shall we tell the others?"

Wigg thought for a moment. "No, I think not," he said, smiling at her. "I have been without you for over three centuries, and I would like to keep this part of our relationship to ourselves, if we can. Call me overbearing if you wish, but you are new to both the palace and the Redoubt. The others will find out soon enough. There is no need for us to hurry that day forward. And when they do discover it, rest assured that their teasing will be merciless. In fact, Celeste and Shailiha have in some ways already started." His infamous right eyebrow arched up, driving home his point.

"Very well," she said sleepily.

Wigg lay silent for a moment, thinking. "Faegan will know without being told, of course," he mused.

"How?" Abbey asked softly. Sleep had finally come padding to her on silent cat's paws, and her eyes were closing.

As Wigg ran his hand through her long hair, he listened to her breathing deepen. "He's a wizard," he whispered to her softly as she drifted off in his arms. "And wizards always know."

CHAPTER

Eighteen

W hump!… whump!… whump!…

The incessant sound of the beatmaster's hammer seared through Tristan's head like a dagger as he pulled hard on his oar. The heat in the galley was overpowering, as was the stench. Bound in chains, weaponless, he found himself surrounded by other men in the same straits, trying to row as best they could lest they suddenly be struck with either the lash or the trident.

For some reason he had been allowed to remain in his clothes, rather than being forced to don the shabby loincloth all the others wore. And the food they gave him was better than that given to the others. This had caused furtive, distrustful glances from his fellow slaves, making him feel like an outcast. Worse, in the increased heat his clothes made him more fatigued and dehydrated. By now he actually envied the others the simple, almost indecent rags they wore.

As he rowed, doing his best to keep up, sweat poured off him and his muscles felt as if they were about to crack apart. He watched with hatred as the white-skinned slaver before them hammered out the incessant, mind-numbing beat. Other slavers strode arrogantly up and down the alleyway, using their gruesome weapons with impunity. He had not been struck yet, but knew it would only be a matter of time before that happened.

Tristan was positioned in the front row, in the first seat to the immediate right of the alleyway. As he pulled the oar to his chest over and over again, he looked down at the number that had been so crudely carved into its handle. One. Despite the desperate nature of his situation, his mouth turned up slightly at the irony.

Suddenly a wave of nausea rolled over him. He had no choice but to bend over toward the pitching deck and just let it happen. By now this had occurred so often that nothing but clear bile emerged. The sounds of sick men retching were almost continual, and the unrelenting stench-a combination of vomit, blood, and urine-only added to his queasiness.

Tristan had not been surprised when he first became seasick, for he was completely unaccustomed to being on the water. In fact, he knew very little about oceangoing vessels. Since the end of the Sorceresses' War more than three hundred years earlier, the monarchy had sponsored no navy. Given the fact that the Sea of Whispers was supposedly uncrossable from any direction, and that no other nation at that time had been known to exist, a seagoing force had been deemed unnecessary.

But the unexpected return of the Coven and the revelation of how they had crossed the ocean had changed all that. For some time, Tristan had been acutely aware of the vast importance of the Minion armada anchored just off the coast of Parthalon-an armada that he now supposedly commanded. But the ships might as well have been moored on one of the three moons for all the good they could do him. The view out the oar slit in the hull told him that the ship was traveling east. But to where? Parthalon? What in the name of the Afterlife was Krassus trying to accomplish?

Tristan looked down at his chains. They bound him not only to the deck floor, but to the rest of the oarsmen. Each of them had the word Talis seared into his shoulder. Tristan had not been branded, but he had the distinct impression that they were all expendable, including him. The chain system made that point: should the ship founder, the slaves, linked together as they were, would never be able to get out in time.

Number One, he thought as he pulled the heavy oar to his chest. Here he was no longer the crown prince of Eutracia, or even the Chosen One. Just Number One. And Number One would be granted no special favors or undue mercy. As of yet, no one seemed to have recognized him. He was simply one of the slaves, trying to stay alive another day. And here there were no wizards to help him escape.

Just then a demonslaver came down the stairway from the deck above. "Raise oars!" he shouted. At once, the relentless pounding of the hammer stopped. As a group, the slaves lifted their oars from the Sea of Whispers and held them still, just a few feet above the waves.

Tristan knew what was about to happen, for he had seen this ritual before. A fresh beatmaster had come to take the place of the one who had just served. It seemed to happen every four hours or so, during which time the slaves did not row.

Tristan obediently pushed down on the handle of his oar as best he could, muscles burning, keeping the paddle well out of the ocean. He wanted no undue attention, and the only way to ensure that was to keep doing an especially good job.

Tristan's dark eyes watched as the seated beatmaster laid down the two great hammers and the other slaver walked across to replace him. In truth, Tristan had been waiting and hoping for this precise moment.

He harbored no illusions about escape. He knew there was no way he could ever overpower the slavers, and freeing himself from his chains was impossible. But this rare moment would provide the precious seconds of quiet distraction that he needed. He simply had to know the answer to the mystery that had plagued him ever since he had awakened here, and the time to find out was now.

Slowly, he turned his head toward the slave seated on his right. The fellow was balding, sullen, and perpetually quiet. They had said very little to each other, and Tristan had immediately distrusted him. He had no choice, though. Soon the incessant pounding would begin anew, and Tristan's chance would be lost. He would simply have to make his attempt, and trust to luck.

Feigning another attack of nausea, Tristan forced his weight onto the handle of the oar, at the same time surreptitiously slipping his right hand free of the handle and down toward the top of his right boot.

As Tristan had intended, the man next to him turned his head away from the sight of a fellow slave going through another bout of seasickness while trying not to drop the oar.