"Among their other varied skills, partial adepts may also practice the fine art of blaze-gazing, but this expertise is rare," Wigg went on, his words continuing to materialize on the black panel behind him. Soon he would wave his hand once more, and the writing would disappear. "Given these proclivities for such talents," he continued, "it should also become abundantly clear that-"

The classroom's double doors blew open with a deafening crash, and Faegan soared through as though his life depended on it.

It was rare to see the ancient levitate his wheeled chair, much less use it to go flying about. Something lay across his lap-something dark and charred-looking. As Faegan lowered his chair to the ground, the prince felt his stomach turn over. Lying across the old man's useless legs was the horribly burned body of a child.

"Wigg!" Faegan shouted, as he levitated the badly injured child onto a clear section of tabletop. "Come here! I need you!"

Wigg dashed from the dais. In a flash Tristan was by their sides as the two wizards called on the craft in a desperate attempt to heal the child.

The young boy looked dead, yet his chest stubbornly rose and fell in staggered, wheezing lurches. The entire top half of his torso was charred; most of his hair had been burned away. Much of his face was unrecognizable. The sickening stench of burnt flesh began to fill the room.

Sobbing openly, Faegan looked up at the prince and struggled to get the words out.

"So many…" he said, his body shaking. "There are so many more…"

Reaching up, the old wizard took hold of Tristan's hand. His grip was cold and clammy, as if some of the life had gone out of him.

"The courtyard…" he whispered. His hand tightened urgently around Tristan's. "You must get to the palace courtyard…"

His mind awash with worry for Shailiha and Celeste, Tristan ran to gather up his weapons and tore from the room.