Straining with everything he had but not wanting to hurry, Tristan let go another series of false retches, at the same time gradually moving his hand closer to the top of his boot. Turning his head slightly, he could see that he was nearly there.

Finding the top of his boot, his first two fingers slipped inside.

Tristan froze. There was nothing there.

Unsure of what to do, he nearly panicked. But with yet another great effort, he pressed the oar handle a bit lower, allowing his fingers deeper access inside the boot. Raising his eyes, he saw that the beatmaster had risen from his seat. Only seconds remained before the new slaver would call out the order to lower oars, and he would have to begin rowing again.

And then his fingers touched metal. The brain hook-the slim, razor-sharp stiletto with the tiny, curved hook at the end-that he had carried hidden in his right boot ever since the death of Nicholas and the destruction of the Gates of Dawn was still there, undiscovered by Krassus and his demonslavers! Tristan was overjoyed.

But then, just as he was about to grip it, his fingers touched something else-something pliable and scratchy. It was tucked away farther back, near his calf. Whoever had put it there probably hadn't noticed the brain hook, driven so far down as it had been.

Risking everything, his muscles straining to the breaking point, he captured its upper edge between his fingertips, lifted it gently to the top of his boot, and looked down.

It was a piece of vellum, and he immediately recognized it as being a fragment of the Scroll of the Vagaries, the ancient document Krassus had had lying on his desk aboard the Sojourner.

Who would have put it in his boot? And why?

But there was no time now to ponder this new mystery. Muscles shaking with fatigue and effort, he leaned against the oar while using his fingertips to push the piece of parchment back into the deep recesses of his boot.

But the strain of holding the oar in place for so long with only one hand finally became too great. Just as he started to sit back up, the oar handle slipped from his grasp, and the other slaves in his row cried out as they attempted to keep the oar in place without his added strength.

The demonslavers immediately snapped their heads around and leveled their vacant eyes at him, and several of them trotted over to where Tristan sat chained, trying to catch his breath.

The demonslaver who was to have become the new beatmaster reached him first. He smiled, showing his black, pointed teeth. When Tristan looked up at him, he saw a large ring of keys hooked to the top of a leather belt running around the monster's waist.

"Krassus told me you would become a problem, Number One," the slaver said softly, menacingly. "And so you have. It didn't take you long to live up to our expectations, did it?"

Reaching out, he took a nine-tails from one of the other slavers standing nearby and began coiling it up slowly.

"You shall of course be punished," he said. "And the best method I can think of is to give you something that will remind you of your new place in life every time you bend forward to pull on your oar. We still have a long way to go, and with every new stroke you will be reminded of me." He smiled again.

Tristan looked up hatefully. "You aren't as good as you think you are, you know," he growled. "I killed several of your kind back in Farpoint. It was easy, and I enjoyed having their blood on my hands. There will be many more of you dead before I am finished, I swear it. And you will be one of them."

The slaver placed the handle of his whip beneath Tristan's chin and viciously forced the prince's face up. "Really," he mused. "Tell me, how many of my brothers did you kill?"

Tristan's reaction was immediate. "At least five," he retorted without thinking. It was only after saying it that he realized his mistake.

The thing standing before him smiled again. "Thank you," he said, almost politely. "Then five it shall be." Removing the whip from beneath Tristan's chin, he nodded shortly to the slavers standing next to him.

Two of them grabbed the prince's hands, while another of them began to unlace the ties at the front of his black leather vest. Before he knew it, the vest had come over the top of his head, and was lying on his forearms. Then he was grabbed again and forced to bend over at the waist. Everyone had gone silent, and the only sound was the creaking of the Wayfarer's hull as she rocked back and forth on the Sea of Whispers.

Tristan knew what was coming, and there was nothing he could do to prevent it. All he had to fight them with was his mind. For every lash of the whip, he decided, he would think of someone he cared for. And whatever happened, he would not give these abhorrent monsters the pleasure of hearing him scream.

The nine-tails whistled through the air and broke the skin of his naked back. The leather strips sent shock waves through his body, causing him to convulse.

Shailiha, he thought, the sister I brought back from Parthalon.

Again the lash came down, rupturing the skin at a right angle to the first cuts. Crossroads of azure blood began to drip down. His body jangled like a marionette.

Wigg, my teacher. The one who will someday instruct me in the ways of the craft.

The nine leather strips came yet again, opening up part of his lower back. Glowing, azure blood ran down in earnest now, collecting eerily upon the rough-hewn, wooden seat and the unforgiving, rusty chains that bound him.

Faegan… the rogue wizard from Shadowood… with his violin and his blue cat…

Again the strips came around, this time deepening the first set of gashes. Gritting his teeth desperately, he almost cried out. Sweat dripped down his face, and his breath came in short, ragged puffs. He closed his eyes, trying to brace himself for the next assault.

Geldon, my friend… so small in stature… but with so… great… a heart…

The fifth and final stroke came down with the greatest intensity of all, sending azure blood splattering wildly across the slaver's face and hands. Smiling, the monster began to retract the whip, coiling it up slowly. As the bright, glowing blood flowed from Tristan's back down onto the deck, slaves and demonslavers alike stared at the strange, wondrous substance as if it had just come from another world.

And Celeste… my love…

Suddenly he felt an unexpected rush of cold, salt-laden seawater splash against his wounds. It was more than he could bear.

Groaning softly, Tristan lost consciousness and collapsed to the filthy deck.

CHAPTER

Nineteen

"W elcome to the herb cubiculum!" Lionel said without turning around. Faegan's diminutive caretaker seemed to be searching urgently for something. "Now where on earth did I put my equalizing spoons?"

He began rummaging about anxiously on the top of the broad, cluttered table. "If I can't find them, it will make things far more difficult for us, yes it will," he chattered nervously. "And I know Master Faegan has a deadline, that he does."

Pulling with frustration at the single tuft of hair on the top of his head while at the same time trying to keep his broken spectacles in place, Lionel the Little jumped down off the stool that seemed far too high for him and began scurrying about the room on his short, bowed legs as though everyone's lives depended upon it. In many ways, the princess thought, perhaps they did.

After Shailiha had killed the slavers in the glade, she and Celeste had made their way to Faegan's tree house mansion. There they were directed to a secret door in the trunk of the ancient, gnarled tree, and had come up the spiral staircase to the foyer. They were greeted immediately by a rotund, gracious gnome who curtsied, then politely introduced herself as Samantha the Squat. Beckoning them to follow her, she turned and led the way down a series of dark, highly polished, wooden-paneled hallways. The mazelike quality of the place reminded Shailiha of the Redoubt-albeit a smaller, wooden version. After climbing two flights of stairs, another hallway led at last to a set of double doors of inlaid mahogany. Samantha knocked twice. After hearing a welcoming call from Lionel, she smiled, curtsied again, and took her leave.