He carefully removed the marrow from each of the two sections of bone and placed it in a small pan. Then he opened up the skull. When the grayish white frontal lobes presented themselves, he began to whistle happily. Nothing soothed his nerves so much as the preparation of another of his potions-especially when it was for Satine. He employed only very fresh corpses in his work for her, and only those that had perished by suicide.

Eutracian custom dictated that suicide victims should be laid to rest in separate sections of the nation's cemeteries. Though abandoned in many places, this custom of segregation was still practiced in others. When the craft had been in its infancy, many had believed that the soul of a suicide victim might not be released to the Afterlife. Few had wished to risk the chance of being placed to rest beside those who had killed themselves. Separate arrangements had therefore been made.

Ridiculous, he thought, as he continued to work. Still, he was thankful for this superstition, which proved infinitely helpful to him in his arts.

His hands had grown excessively bloody, so he walked to the brook. As he knelt down before a calm spot at the water's edge, his reflection peered back at him. He saw the face that had wrinkled and creased beyond its fifty Seasons of New Life. He also saw his shiny, bald head, the encircling fringe of gray hair drooping haphazardly to his shoulders. The soft brown eyes stared back at him with intelligence, and he could see the yellow teeth that lay just behind the full, expressive mouth. He smiled, liking what he saw.

After washing the blood from his hands, he walked over to a steaming cauldron to add the marrow and brain. He took up a long wooden staff, dipped it into the cauldron, and slowly mixed the ingredients. Then he leaned over the top and inhaled, using his well-trained sense of smell to analyze the concoction's progress.

Something wasn't quite right. Leaving the mixing staff in the cauldron, he walked back over to the table and picked up a leather-bound journal.

He thumbed through its pages, searching for the formula he needed. Ah, there it is, he thought. He ran his fingers down his own handwritten notes. When at last he found what was lacking, he walked over to the side of the glade that sheltered one of his many herb gardens. Fully mature gingercrinkle had a violet blossom and a clean, crisp scent, but it wasn't the blossoms he was interested in just now. He selected what he deemed to be the best example and pulled the plant from the ground.

After carefully cutting the root away, he carried it over to the stream and washed it. Then he used his mortar and pestle to grind it up. He measured out just the right amount and put it into the cauldron. Then he banked the coals, removed the mixing staff, and placed a circular lid over the cauldron's top so that his creation might simmer overnight.

There was only one more thing to do before he left the glade. He lifted the corpse from the table, carried it to the edge of the cat's circle, and unceremoniously tossed it in.

She showed little interest in it, having just eaten the muscle he had given her. Still, the body he had just tossed to her was large, and he knew that he would not have to worry about feeding her for several more days.

Reznik gathered up his instruments and his journal and began to make his way out of the glade. After taking only a couple of steps he had a sudden thought. He stopped short and turned around.

Returning to the table, he picked up the gingercrinkle blossom and placed it in one of the buttonholes of his jerkin. Pretty, he thought.

As he walked out of the glade, he began to whistle.

Faegan's words echoed in tristan's ears as he ran down the hallways of the Redoubt. He skidded to a stop before the first of the several secret passageways leading to the palace above. Scrabbling at the special section of marble wall, he pulled hard, rotating it on its pivot. It opened to reveal a rough-hewn stone staircase. His weapons still in his hands, he charged up two steps at a time.

His chest was heaving when he reached the top of the steps and strapped on the baldric holding his dreggan and the quiver holding his throwing knives. Then he drew the sword, its unmistakable ring echoing in the confines of the stairway.

He held the point of the dreggan high and placed the cool, flat side of its blade against his forehead. Closing his eyes, he tried to calm his mind in anticipation of whatever might await him on the other side of the door.

When he was ready, Tristan pushed hard on the section of wall. It swiveled open easily, and he charged through the open doorway. The room on the other side was empty.

He had come up into the Chamber of Supplication, one of the many elaborate halls his late father and the Directorate of Wizards had employed in their dealings with the citizenry. The elaborate room yawned back at the prince, as if mocking him for his foolishness. Then he heard an unfamiliar noise.

At first he couldn't make it out as it wafted eerily through stained glass windows. Tristan ran to one of the windows, pushed it open wide, and climbed through to the courtyard beyond.

Complete pandemonium reigned. The courtyard overflowed with a crushing mass of burned and wounded citizens, their cries soaring toward the heavens. Men, women, and children had already forced their way onto the palace grounds, and still more were massed in the streets beyond the drawbridge. Some of Tristan's Minion warriors were attempting to hold back the throng, but as gently as they could so as not to further harm the wounded. But the palace warriors were too few, and the crowd too large and too determined to reach sanctuary.

Tristan watched helplessly as his people died before his very eyes. Then two dark shadows crossed the grass, and the Minions Traax and Ox landed next to him.

Frantically, Tristan grabbed Traax by the shoulders. "Shailiha, Celeste, and Abbey!" he shouted, trying to make himself heard above the crowd. "Where are they? Are they safe?"

Nodding, Traax pointed to a far corner of the courtyard.

Tristan could just make out the three of them. Protected by a wide ring of Minion warriors, they were tearing bedsheets into strips and bandaging the victims as best they could.

"The warriors have strict orders to fly them to safety, should it come to that," Traax shouted to Tristan. "I tried to convince them of the danger, but none of them would leave."

Tristan looked over at Ox. He had rarely seen so much emotion upon a Minion warrior's face.

"It happen so fast!" the huge warrior said. "Wizard Faegan see first boy come through. He be burned bad. Faegan see him as he crawl across yard, and he lift chair and take him into palace. But he not see others come. Me now think neither wizard know how bad this be."

"Yes, we do," Tristan heard the familiar voice say.

Turning, the prince found Wigg standing beside him and Faegan sitting close by. Both wizards had tears in their eyes.

"The boy you tended to in the Redoubt?" Tristan asked.

All Wigg could do was shake his head.

Faegan raised his hands toward the burgeoning crowd. Tristan wondered what the crippled wizard was about to do.

Azure bolts shot from Faegan's hands toward the drawbridge, where they spread to create a glowing wall that sealed the castle entrance. When he lowered his hands, the bolts ceased. The crowd inside the palace grounds quieted. Many looked up in wonder, having beheld the majesty of the craft for the first time. Tristan turned back to Wigg.

"What has happened?" he asked.

His face dark with concern, Wigg looked at Tristan directly. "Faegan and I fear it is our greatest nightmare," he said softly. "If we're right, no power on earth may be able to stop it."