Savage Messiah

"It's all so simple, yet at the same time so complex," Faegan answered. He wheeled himself back to the table. "If any of you commanded the gift of Consummate Recollection, you would understand."

Celeste gave her father a wry look, then turned back to Faegan. "Understand what?"

"We have been searching for references to Tristan's blood," Faegan answered. "At first glance that would seem the correct thing to do. But we were looking for a way to go forward to solve our problem. What we should have been looking for was an act of reversal."

"There are many references to acts of reversal in the Tome," Wigg countered. "The reversal of spells and incantations has long been one of the subdivisions of the craft. There are likely to be as many references to them as there are to anything else-perhaps even more. I understand your line of reasoning, but I fail to see how this will narrow our search."

"All of what you say is true," Faegan agreed. The self-satisfied smile crossed his face again. "But tell me, how many references could there possibly be to the supposed reversal of endowed blood? The Tome states that only the Jin'Sai will ever be able to make use of the craft without first having been trained. And that if and when he does, his blood will turn azure. That has of course already occurred. So it would logically follow that if I use my gift to search for the phrase 'blood reversal,' the Tome will direct us to what we are searching for." His smile surfaced again. "Or at the very least take us much closer."

Wigg rubbed his chin. He had to admit that what Faegan was saying made sense. "Then I suggest you get started," he said.

Faegan nodded. Turning his chair around, he looked over at the black pedestal that held the Tome of the Paragon. He called upon the craft, and the white leather-bound book rose hauntingly from its place. It glided across the room to land before him on the table.

Faegan then looked over at Adrian. "Please take up a quill and parchment," he said, "and write down each of the page numbers as I dictate them. It is vitally important that you leave none of them out. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Adrian said. She carefully dipped the quill into the waiting ink bottle. "I am ready."

Faegan closed his eyes. After a few moments he began to speak haltingly, naming specific volumes and page numbers. When he finished, he opened his eyes. Adrian had recorded six different references.

Faegan eagerly grabbed up the parchment and made a mental note of the numbers. He closed his eyes again. The Tome opened itself, and its pages began turning over until they stopped at the first of Adrian's references. Faegan opened his eyes.

"And now we shall see what we shall see," he said, rubbing his hands together like a schoolboy in a candy shop.

Faegan looked down at the first of the referenced pages. As his eyes ran across them, the words duplicated themselves in gleaming azure and rose into the air. One by one they joined to form paragraphs, the paragraphs forming a completed page.

As the five of them sat there reading the glowing page and the others that followed, they were astounded by what they learned.

CHAPTER XVII

As she neared the exit of the stone labyrinth, Satine could see the natural light streaming in up ahead. She knew that she was going to be all right, but she had never been so exhausted. Her nerves had jangled and her heart had raced for the last two hours. Her face and body were soaked with sweat, her breathing was labored, and her hands shook noticeably. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to calm down.

Somehow she had made the correct decision at each of the twenty deadly intersections, and she would live another day.

Walking her horse out of the square-cut tu

After having been on a horse for most of the day, she decided to stretch her legs. She slid from her saddle and walked around to face the gelding. She gave his face a comforting rub. She checked her weapons, took the reins in one hand, and began walking toward Valrenkium, the village of partial adepts.

She stood upon the short rise overlooking the secret town. Coming here was dangerous, the place ugly and distasteful. This particular group of partials were among the most secretive and deadly practitioners of the craft known to man. They called themselves the Corporeals, and for very good reason.

Reznik had told her that "Valrenkium" meant "The Parish of Death" in Old Eutracian. The partial adepts who lived here employed their skills in the organic arts of the craft to produce potions, poisons, and other means of death and mayhem. Supposedly, many of the abominations of the craft that had long plagued Eutracia could be traced back to this place.

To the casual observer, the village appeared to be much like any of the other hamlets scattered across Eutracia. Quaint brick houses stood in neat rows, their windows open. Smoke drifted lazily from their chimneys. Children laughed and played, dogs barked, and chickens ran about in the streets. Vendors sat in stalls displaying their wares. The sounds of a blacksmith's hammer could be heard, pounding out its double clang.

But as Satine drew closer, she saw the gibbets lining the road into town. The curved iron cages, barely big enough for a single prisoner to stand up in, turned slowly in the wind. As she walked by, voices called out to her. Those still possessing enough strength reached out beseechingly from between the iron bands. She lowered her head and continued on.

Other gibbets held those already past help, their bloated and rotting corpses slumped within. They are the lucky ones, she thought.

Captured from the countryside and brought to Valrenkium to die of exposure, many of these prisoners would be taken down only after their dead bodies had aged sufficiently for use. Like a good cheese or a keg of wine, Reznik had said once, laughing. Others were used the moment they arrived; some were allowed to live for a time, depending upon the needs of the Corporeal partial adepts.

Every time Satine visited Valrenkium, her first instinct was to cut the gibbets down and set the prisoners free. But she resisted the urge. Not only would such a move endanger her life, it would also do no good. The entire village was surrounded by the same rocky bluffs through which the tu

Most people in Eutracia regarded the rumors about Valrenkium and the Corporeals to be nothing more than myths, grown stronger over time and embellished even further by the return of the Coven of Sorceresses. But Satine knew differently.

Walking deeper into the village, Satine finally began to hear the screams, and the telltale odor wafted to her nose. Steeling herself, she hurried on to Reznik's cottage. Tying her horse to a rail, she looked around warily before untying the two heavy saddlebags she had brought with her. She slung them over her shoulder and walked to the door, which she opened without knocking. The familiar interior of the cottage yawned before her. She pushed the door closed with one boot.

Reznik was nowhere to be seen. She walked to a nearby table and put the saddlebags down.

The place had changed little since her last visit: a mishmash of tables, beakers, books, scrolls, and other items of the craft. An adjoining room served as the library, its walls lined with overflowing bookcases. Beyond that lay an atrium, the sunlight streaming in through its glass ceiling and down onto the various plants of the craft the herbmaster cultivated. The herbs gave the cottage an earthy smell, belying the cruel work that went on here.