But the concern that bothered him most-the one that was never far from his heart and mind-was his love for Celeste.

She was the love of his life-a sentiment she returned with an equal if not greater ardor. They had been overjoyed when her father, Wigg, had given the prince his blessing to pursue his daughter's heart.

But soon after the physical consummation of their love, the wizards had come to them bearing devastating news. Information only then gleaned from the newly acquired Scroll of the Vigors dictated that the two of them must never be intimate again-at least until the riddle of Tristan's azure blood could be unraveled and his blood returned to red. If Celeste-or any other woman, for that matter-were to become pregnant with Tristan's seed, the resulting child would be deformed beyond description, and would also constitute a grave threat to the well-being of the craft of magic.

They had only been together once, but Tristan feared that Celeste might already be pregnant with his child. He had seen the familiar glow of the craft build around her and then vanish just after their wondrous interlude that morning beneath the great oak tree.

Since that fateful day, Tristan and Celeste's love had grown, but now they courted each other chastely, much the same way the Orb of the Vigors and the Orb of the Vagaries constantly whirled about each other but could never touch. As it was with Tristan and Celeste, so it was with the Orbs: union would be devastating. While he considered the painful irony, Tristan looked sadly down at his hands.

"And because of these facets of the craft, partial adepts can also sometimes be herbmistresses or herbmasters." Wigg's voice broke in upon Tristan's thoughts. The prince looked back up at the First Wizard of the Conclave.