It was clear that despite the different ways in which Geldon and Lionel had taken their own lives, they had been poisoned by the same assassin. Every person here-human, Minion, and gnome alike-wanted the killer dead. For Satine, Eutracia was about to become a very small and dangerous place.

Traax walked slowly forward, holding a flaming torch. Going down on bended knee, he handed it expressionlessly up to the Jin'Sai.

Tristan took the torch and turned to face the crowd. The thousands of Minions suddenly went to one knee in the soft, dewy grass.

"We live to serve!" came the thunderous oath, its power so great that it seemed to shake the earth. Lifting his hands, Tristan beckoned them all to stand.

The prince knew that it had long been Minion custom that no eulogy should be given before the traditional lighting of the pyres. Like the Minions themselves, the philosophy behind the ritual was both solemn and simple. A disgraced warrior was never granted honorary immolation. The fact that these two bodies lay upon pyres tacitly told everyone all they needed to know.

Still, as he walked to the pyres Tristan found himself torn about whether to speak. He hadn't known Lionel well, but Geldon had been a close friend. His eyes filled with tears as he remembered the first time he had met the hunchbacked dwarf in the Ghetto of the Shunned in Parthalon. Physically, Geldon had been small. But the goodness of his heart and the quickness of his mind had more than made up for it.

Standing before the pyres, Tristan made his decision and raised the torch. Better to let everyone say goodbye in his or her own way.

Tristan touched the torch first to Geldon's pyre and then to Lionel's. The fire caught quickly, and he lodged the torch in Lionel's pyre before stepping back.

As the flames roared into the night sky, an idea came to him. There is indeed one last thing that we can do to honor you, he thought.

Tristan reached back and drew his dreggan, its curved blade ringing as it slid from its scabbard. Raising it high, he pressed the button on the sword's hilt. With a deadly clang the blade launched forward. Knowing what would happen next, the Jin'Sai kept his weapon high as he looked over his legions.

Thousands of dreggans immediately left their scabbards, the combined ring of their blades filling the courtyard. With one heart, the warriors all triggered their blades, the clang nearly deafening. His jaw set, Tristan looked back to the pyres.

We will find the one who did this to you, he silently swore. And she will pay with her life.

CHAPTER LXIV

Two hours later, Celeste stood at the window of her personal quarters. Despite the sadness of the immolation ceremony, the night still seemed beautiful, peaceful. She silently blessed the fact that her view did not overlook the flaming funeral pyres.

The cool evening wind wafted gently into the room. The stars twinkled down at her as though she were the only person in creation. Normally these things would have given her great pleasure, but not just now. Another wave of awful pain came over her, and she was forced to go sit on the bed.

The first attack had come during the lighting of the pyres. The grinding, exquisite pain felt like thousands of tiny needles stabbing into the very essence of her being. It had lasted only a few moments, but that had been an eternity. As the pain recurred, she had done her best to hide it from the others, and she believed that no one had noticed.

As this latest attack subsided, her hands shook and she was bathed in sweat. Closing her eyes, she silently prayed that no one would see her like this-at least not for a while. If these attacks worsened with the progression of her illness, she knew she would not be able to keep them secret for long.

She had told Tristan only part of the truth about why she wanted to visit these rooms. As his new wife, she would take up residence with him in his quarters. She had told him that she needed to come here to collect some of her things. The rest could be delivered by the Minions later, she had said.

Her real reason was that she needed time to think. She was acutely aware of how guilty Tristan already felt about her condition-and how intensely worried he was about all of the other troubles plaguing the nation. She knew that if these attacks continued, soon there would be no way she could keep him from seeing them. Before that day arrived, she wanted to sort things out for herself-especially before she left with Tristan and her father to search for the Scroll Master. Once they departed the palace, she might never have the luxury of another private moment.

Standing on shaky legs, she walked back to the window. An idea had been brewing in her mind ever since she and Tristan had been told about her condition. She was aware that he was trying to be as supportive as he could. But each of them knew that it was what they did not say that somehow always seemed to negate whatever assurances they gave one another. A dark cloud hung over them that could be banished in only one of two ways: if they found the Scroll Master soon and he agreed to help them, or if she were to die.

She went to her writing table and sat down. She selected some paper and carefully dipped the quill in ink. Pausing for a moment, she gathered her thoughts.

Three false starts lay torn up on the desk before her note was finally finished. Folding the letter, she placed it into an envelope and sealed it with red wax. Almost as an afterthought, she walked the letter to her dresser and she sprinkled it lightly with myrrh. Then she packed the few things that she had told Tristan she had come for and hid the letter among them.

Her belongings in her arms, Celeste looked around the room for what she feared might be the last time. After blowing out the candle on the desk, she left the room, softly closing the door behind her, and walked down the hall to join her new husband.

CHAPTER LXV

"Alms for the blind," the haggard beggar woman pleaded. "Won't someone please spare a few kisa for a poor blind woman?"

Two coins rattled into her cup. Gleefully, she snatched them out. One went into her mouth and she bit down on it. Then she did the same with the other. She smiled.

Feeling for the pocket of her tattered dress, she carefully deposited the two precious disks. Coins had already been stolen from her cup twice today, and she wasn't about to take any more chances.

She reached out again to find the hand of the one who had just been so kind, but whoever that person had been, he or she was gone. Just the same, the old woman thought she should give thanks.

"Bless you," she said to no one in her soft, cracking voice. She resumed feeling her way down the busy street. She moved hunched over, her gray hair hanging in snarled ropes down either side of her face. Her dress was tatters. Her skin was gray; her eyes were sunken and without life. Every now and again she paused to cough raggedly. Then she once again took up the handles of the small, dilapidated handcart that held her meager possessions, and hobbled on.

The new day had broken clear and bright over Tammerland, and Evenger Street was as busy as it always was this time of the morning. Famous all over Tammerland for its bustling farmers' market, Evenger Street would soon fill with tavern owners, cooks, and wives come to haggle over the best selections. The woman knew the prospects for begging should be fair.

The shops here were all stalls, designed to be easily opened in the morning and then closed up again at night. Animals and birds were often slaughtered out in the open. Buckets of pig blood sat about, their contents to be used in the making of sausage. Piles of animal innards often blocked the way, black with flies as they dried in the sun.