until the afflicted simply lose the
desire to live and succumb to a
pernicious rot. My people call it
fading.”
“Is there a cure for this fading? Is
there some way to impede the
blight?” The gentle voice of Fleur
broke into his pause.
“Brite-weed administered early
and often can sometimes stop
death, but it is an uncertain cure.
Energized diaman crystals halt the
spread of the contagion on the
ground—confine it. We established
a diaman perimeter around Nyth
Uchel, but the contagion
continually threatens. My warden
tells me the blight has penetrated
the western border.”
Hel paused and closed his eyes.
His head fell back. He half-sat,
half-stood, propped on the window
casement with his arms loosely
crossed. The light from the
window shone on a face gray with
fatigue, the portrait of a man at the
end of his resources.
The desire to help this beleaguered
soul who had taken so much upon
himself grew inside Adonia. This
descendent of kings had stripped
himself of all pride to obtain
assistance for those dependent on
him. She knew something about
losing one’s pride. “You must care
deeply for your people.”
Hel straightened wearily and
frowned at her. “I am DeHelios.”
His statement implied an obvious
answer to an unnecessary question
and she felt the hot flush of
embarrassment. With a slow
exhale, Hel continued. “Our
quarries labored night and day to
replace Torre Bianca’s shattered
diamantorre. We heard of
DeTano’s defeat of the Haarb and
then watched brilliance light the
horizons as Verdantia’s sigil
towers regained life.
Now, I lack only a magistra to
partner me in the Great Rite and
the White Tower will once more
blaze in Verdantia’s night sky. I
am hopeful, once re-vitalized,
Torre Bianca’s energy will combat
the evil menacing Nyth Uchel.”
Ari cleared his throat. “Would that
we could help you, but the ugly
truth is we have no magistras—not
of sufficient age to perform the
Great Rite. Other than our queen
and Sophi, Doral’s sister, our
oldest magistra is thirteen years of
age. She lacks a decade of age and
training to be of use to you.” Ari
nodded at Hel’s appalled
exclamation. “Yes. The Haarb
repeated the massacre inflicted on
Nyth Uchel throughout all of
Verdantia. They learned of the
crucial role our magistras played in
our magicks and they targeted
them. The Haarb’s elimination of
all our magickal practitioners was
horrifically thorough. Our noble
houses number a mere handful.”
“But, how did all the sigil
towers…?” Hel faltered to a stop.
“We are a true Tetriarch,” Fleur
said. “Just as with the First
Tetriarch—your ancestors, Primo
Federago, Segundo Agentio and
Prima Isolde—Mother Verdantia
has gifted the three of us with the
ability to empower all the sigil
towers on the face of Verdantia
when we make love.”
Comprehension dawned across
Hel’s face and he scanned the
room, his eyes setting first on
Fleur, then Ari and finally, Doral.
“How did you think the towers
were empowered?” Doral asked,
his voice benign.
Adonia sat bolt upright and paid
close attention. She’d heard that
tone from Doral before and it
usually preceded something lethal.
Ramsey and Steffania in their
positions near the door had
straightened also.
“I thought it done in the
conventional manner; each sigil
tower housed a magistra and
magister who performed the Great
Rite. I never considered the muchheralded Second Tetriarch a true
triad. How could you be? You
aren’t of the DeHelios bloodline.”
Hel’s eyes swung to Fleur and
unease furrowed his brow.
“I…thought our Constante queen
hot-blooded, desirous of
variety…perhaps, one lover
insufficient for her…” His voice
trailed off.
He extended a hand toward Fleur
but a low growl from Doral cut off
what Hel might have said next.
The High Lord of Verdantia’s eyes
held heat and his clipped words
threw down a challenge. “The
Senzienza called to us. There was
no mistaking Her message. Once
the three of us came together, there
was no mistaking the authenticity
of the Second Tetriarch.”
“Stop it. Both of you. He didn’t
know. He meant no insult.” Fleur’s
eyes lifted to hold Hel’s with a
slight frown. “You didn’t, did you?
Mean to insult me?”
Adonia could have hugged the
young woman. Fleur’s sweet
nature defused a potentially lethal
confrontation between three proud
men.