CHAPTER

Thirty-eight

The male of the Chosen Ones shall therefore be forced to return to the foreign land of his travails. And upon this journey he shall order the onetime destroyers of his nation to return with him, and to join in his struggle.

—PAGE 1016, CHAPTER I OF THE VIGORS OF THE TOME

When Tristan came to his senses, he was lying on his back on the cold, frozen ground. A beautiful blue sky lay above him, cumulus clouds patterned throughout. Birds sang loudly, announcing the advent of morning. His mind was cloudy, but he knew the sleepiness and dizziness would soon depart. He sat up, his head slightly spinning, and turned to look at Ox.

The huge Minion had not fared so well. His slumber was so deep and his breathing so shallow that anyone passing by might have thought him dead. Then, without moving, the warrior began to snore. Loudly. Tristan smiled, thinking of the day before, when he and Ox had captured the hatchling and dragged it back to the Redoubt. What he lacks in wit he more than makes up for in courage, he thought. One could have worse friends.

Tristan pulled closer the gray jacket of Eutracian fox that Shailiha had insisted he wear to ward off the cold. He decided to let the Minion sleep for a few more moments.

He looked around, reacquainting himself with the area. Light, fluffy snow blanketed the ground. Faegan‘s portal had deposited them in the immediate area of the shattered Recluse, and he could see the foundation of the partially reconstructed building rising nearby, on a mound of land surrounded by water.

He felt a sudden jab of pain in his right shoulder and reached under the fur with his opposite hand to rub it. Just as Nicholas had predicted, he was beginning to have pain and weakness in his arm: the arm he relied on the most. He knew without looking that the dark, ominous-looking spider veins had extended farther down the length of it. They knew exactly what they were doing that day in the Caves, he thought, his hand instinctively tightening the grip upon the joint.

He stood slowly, anxious to be on his way, then walked to the snoring warrior and gave the bottom of the Minion‘s right boot a gentle kick. ―Ox,‖ he said strongly. ―Wake up. It‘s time to go.‖

Ox slowly stirred, finally sitting up. ―Portal make Ox sleepy,‖ he said thickly. He stood and stretched his arms and then his dark, leathery wings to either side. ―We go Recluse now, Chosen One?‖ he asked.

―Yes,‖ Tristan said, tugging first at the hilt of his sword and then the handles of a few of his throwing knives, making sure the cold weather would not cause them to stick. ―But first I wish to go to another place. It is important to me.‖

―I live to serve,‖ Ox said. Together they walked around to the left of the island that held the smashed Recluse.

After about half an hour of walking, Tristan finally saw what he had been searching for. As his eyes fell upon it, his expression darkened. The little mound of earth and its wooden marker seemed to have remained undisturbed. With every step he took, the sight of it stirred within him stronger and stronger emotions. Love mixed with hate, knowledge permeated by confusion, anger swirling with compassion—they all welled up inside of him, swelling almost to the bursting point.

But he had to know, and there was only one way to be sure.

He stood before his son‘s grave with the Minion, his knees shaking slightly, and read the wooden marker that he had so lovingly carved that fateful day: NICHOLAS II OF THE HOUSE OF GALLAND

You will not be forgotten

Ox‘s eyes widened as Tristan shoved away the stones piled atop the grave, then ripped the marker from the ground, and used one end of it to shovel away the dirt. After many moments the prince stood up, his chest heaving, to see the awful truth. The grave was empty.

He went to his knees before it, the horrific realization tearing through his mind. The monster you sired lives, and is about to destroy everything you hold dear.

Suddenly all the mixed emotions melted away, leaving a single, unrelenting sentiment coursing through his endowed veins. Hate. Gripping the marker, he threw it as far as he could into the neighboring woods, as if by doing so he could also cast off not only the terrible memories of this place but also the monstrous nightmare plaguing his nation.

I will kill you, my son, he seethed inwardly. Somehow, some way, I will find the method by which to overcome your blood. The blood I was forced to give to you. I know I can do it now, and I swear by all that I am I will see you die.

Looking to the Recluse, his mind drifted back to the day when Succiu had so brutally raped him. He returned his gaze to the empty grave. You were conceived in violence and pain, Nicholas. And your life has been devoted to nothing else. But I shall end it for you.

As he made this new oath to himself, he looked down, staring defiantly at the wounds he had carved into his palms not so long ago. When he had sworn a similar pledge, also upon his knees, at yet a different burial place of those he had also once loved. These scars had only recently healed—far more quickly than the ones that remained upon his heart. Or the new one that he now realized he must create. And then his mind and vision began to swim.

Perhaps it had been the sudden, unrelenting rage passing through his blood. Or the fact that he was so near to yet another place of Nicholas. But for whatever the reason, Tristan immediately knew he was in the grip of his second convulsion, and it was far worse than had been his first.

He fell the rest of the way to the ground, foam surging from the corners of his mouth. The pain wracking his body was excruciating, and he screamed out blindly into the clear Parthalonian morning. On and on the torment went, without reprieve. The last thing he remembered was Ox trying to force something into his mouth, and being dragged toward the nearby forest.

Then everything went black as night.