Vindael slowly became aware that he was staring at something very blue. He tried to blink, but his eyelids felt as if they were trying to move over dry, sandy earth. As painful as it was, though, his need to blink only increased, so he dragged his eyelids back and forth across his dehydrated eyeballs as the world around him slowly came into focus.

He realized that his mouth was hanging open and it was as dry as the Great Southern Desert. He closed his mouth, but he couldn't muster up any spit to lubricate it. He opened his mouth again and let out an indistinct sound, halfway between a hoarse mew and a grunt.

Suddenly there were several faces around him, but he had to blink a few more times to recognize his drummers. Someone lifted his head and sloshed a little water into his mouth. He immediately choked on it, coughing and spewing water everywhere, but his mouth at least felt normal again. His thirst, though, suddenly roared into life.

The cup of water was pressed back to his lips and he drank from it greedily. As soon as it was finished, someone passed another cup to Kyde, who, in turn, offered it to him. This time it was wine. It hit his stomach with almost as much dizzying force as the trance potion, but it slaked his thirst more quickly than the water.

"We were worried about you, Master," Kyde said, taking the empty cup from Vindael's lips. "Everyone else came back hours ago."

Vindael was a bit surprised. He looked around, but noticed that there was no one left in the clearing but him and his staff. The sun was barely visible over the tops of the trees in the west. It would be dark in a couple of hours.

And then everything came rushing back to Vindael and he knew why he had been in a trance for so long.

He abruptly sat upright. "Our god spoke to me," he said, eliciting gasps from the others. Every priest had been spoken to, of course, but no one had ever reported having a second contact with the god.

"He told me his name," Vindael continued, causing everyone to gasp even louder. "And he gave me a mission. We must go immediately to the coast and sail east."

Kyde blinked with confusion. "But, Master . . . you can't sail east from here. The wind and the currents don't allow it. You can sail north or south, and you can even follow the land around to the west, but you can't sail east."

"I can. Ganon showed me how."

sssBREAKsss

The celebrations of Lucien's birth lasted for a full week. Everyone in Hyrule took turns having intimate brunch receptions and large dinner parties. At night, the more well-to-do hosted balls at their homes, while the common people spilled out into the streets and danced to music being played by roving bands of musicians. During the day, stores were only open from dawn until mid-morning to allow everyone to buy what they needed for the day's activities, while giving the shopkeepers enough time to go to or host their own parties.

In the center of Castle Town, next to the fountain, ale, courtesy of the king and queen, was served continuously, day and night, to anyone who wanted to bring a cup and fill up. There was always a gaggle of people—mostly men and mostly the same ones—who just lay in a heap in the corners of the street, only occasionally getting up long enough to pour themselves another drink. Different guilds served food each night during the street festival and the drunkards usually roused themselves enough to partake of it, so they at least got some food in their bellies once a day.

Inside the castle, things were slightly more sedate, but just as joyous. Royals, nobles, and ambassadors from the other three kingdoms came to congratulate Astir and Ysabel. Hyrulian nobles came, too, and the tiny Crown Prince was proudly paraded around for everyone to see. There were large state lunches where a surprising amount of work was accomplished—it seemed everyone suddenly had daughters now that Hyrule had a prince, and they all wanted to let the king know that fact—and then, at night, there were joyful dinners, followed by balls, each with a different theme.

The final evening, there was a special supper and Lucien was brought out to celebrate his one-week birthday. Astir and Ysabel cut into a three-tiered birthday cake on his behalf, to the applause of the guests.

The servants were busily serving up the cake to the guests when a sudden, deafening clap of thunder shook the ground, making the dishes clink and the window panes rattle in their frames. Several women screamed and more than a few men shouted in alarm. Then an uneasy, fearful silence descended on the hall as the thunder rolled away.

"I'm glad we're planning on being inside tonight," Astir said. Just the previous evening they had all dined and danced under the stars in the east garden.

People chuckled and relaxed back into their seats. The servants resumed dishing out the cake and conversations were picked up again. But everything was interrupted every couple of minutes by flashes of bright light and more violent thunder.

Baby Lucien was crying and Ysabel couldn't get him to quieten.

"This is intolerable," Ysabel said to Astir. She had to shout to be heard over the thunder.

"It will pass soon," he shouted back. But he waved over the head steward and spoke to him. The man nodded, then hurried away.

Astir rose to his feet and held up his hands for silence. The guests quieted quickly, but he had to wait for another peel of thunder—just as bad as the first—to die away. "My lords and ladies, I suggest that we suspend our dessert course for the time being and go into the ballroom. It will be quieter in there."

Many people looked relieved by the suggestion; the ballroom was located in the middle of the castle and had no windows. There would be no startling flashes of light and the noise of the storm would surely be dampened.

Everyone began to get to their feet. Some people picked up their cake plates and wine glasses to take with them and suddenly everyone was laughing and teasing and it was a party again.

And then there was a blinding flash of light right outside the windows and, simultaneously, a deafening crack that shook the floor violently. Before anyone could react—even before they could shout—a huge object smashed through the windows, blowing out all the candles, slapping people down, and raining shards of glass on their heads.

Astir grabbed Ysabel and shoved her and the baby under the table, covering them with his body. He could hear people screaming and shouting even over the peel of thunder that kept rumbling on and on and on, as if it would never stop.

Finally, though, it did die down. Astir moved aside so Ysabel could come up for air. "Are you and the baby alright?" he asked.

He could barely make out her silhouette in the flashes of light as she sat up. She looked disheveled, but whole. "We're alright, I think," she replied.

Astir reached out to touch Lucien's face. He had gone silent—no doubt from surprise—but he quickly resumed crying—louder and angrier than before.

"Check him," Astir insisted.

Ysabel unwrapped his swaddling blanket and firmly felt his arms, hands, legs, feet, and head, but she felt nothing broken or bleeding. "He feels fine. I think he's just scared."

"Him and me both," Astir muttered. But he pushed himself to his feet and looked out over his dining hall to survey the damage.

A huge old tree had apparently been struck by lightning and had crashed through the window. It looked like it had missed most of the diners, though.

Then he thought he heard someone say, "Smoke." Then, louder, came a different person, "Smoke!"

In the light of the lightning, Astir could see dark smoke starting to fill the room. He glanced around, but saw nothing on fire; the wind had blown out all the candles. When he glanced back, he noticed that the smoke appeared to be spilling in through the broken window. That meant something else was on fire—either the tree, or some other part of the castle or city.

"Everyone," he said, having to shout over the noise of injured people moaning and the storm still raging outside, "if you are uninjured or are not hurt much, please go to the foyer."

That seemed to be the best place to go if there was a fire; if the tree was on fire, it got them away from it, but if it was determined that some other part of the castle was on fire, everyone could quickly evacuate out the front doors.

But no one left the room. In fact, the few people who were on their feet seemed to sit back down.

Astir was confused. Had they not been able to hear him? Or was everyone more injured than he thought?

And then the dark fog reached him and he realized that it wasn't smoke at all. Instead of smelling like burnt wood, it smelled cloyingly sweet, with a hint of something spicy.

Astir saw himself fall to his knees more than he felt it. Ysabel, who was still sitting under the table, grabbed him by the arm. "Astir?" she said in alarm, but her voice sounded far away.

"Get . . . out," he tried to warn her, but his words came out in an unintelligible slur, as if he was fall-down drunk.

He hit the floor, completely unable to move. He watched as Ysabel was overcome by the fog, too, and she collapsed beside him. Even the baby quit crying.

And then everything went black.

sssBreaksss

The storm had abated somewhat by the time a group of figures came into the silent dining room. They were all cloaked in black and hoods were pulled up over their heads. Each of them carried a glass lantern and the light from the candles reflected off their grotesque faces. They looked like someone sort of demon-bird—black with a long, hard beak. On closer inspection, though, human eyes could be seen looking out of the faces. They were just leather plague masks, designed to keep the wearer protected from fouls smells and miasmas.

"Start looking," one figure mumbled from behind his mask.

"He's not likely to be here," a woman said, even as she moved to obey. "He's almost certainly in a nursery of some sort."

"I feel strongly that he is here. So search."

The woman didn't argue with him further and she and the rest of the figures fanned out silently, picking their way carefully through the bodies lying on the floor.

The woman made it to the head of the table first and bent down to check the people lying under it. "I think this is them," she announced.

The leader followed her path to the other end of the table and thrust his lantern under the table. There was a man and woman lying side by side. Both were richly dressed—but then, so was everyone else at the party; they didn't have on crowns, but there were crowns lying near them.

More importantly, the woman was clutching a limp infant to her side.

"That's him," the man pronounced.

His companion bent down and carefully picked up the baby. She stood, holding him up in the light of the others' lanterns as they came over to look.

"Are you sure, Master?" the woman asked. "It would be bad for us if we went all the way back home, only to find out we have the wrong baby."

The man grabbed firm hold of the baby's arm and began chanting under his breath. None of the others understood what he was saying, but they saw the effect within a minute.

"It's him," the magician said firmly. A tiny golden Triforce was glowing on the back of the baby's hand.

Everyone nodded, looking suitably impressed, and there were no further doubts.

"On to our next stop," the magician said as he turned to leave. The others dutifully followed him from the hall and back into the pouring rain. They mounted their horses and rode out the castle gate without challenge; the gate guards, like everyone else, were lying senseless on the ground.

The magician led the others out of the city and into the monastery just outside the eastern wall. They left their horses outside the sanctuary, which sat at the center of the compound, and went inside. Everyone but the magician looked around; they had never been into a place dedicated to the old gods before. It looked interesting, but there was something about it that seemed old and stuffy. All the sanctuaries for their god were light and new.

Moving as if he had been there before—although he never had—the magician led everyone through a door under the altar and into a crypt. There was a flight of stairs in the center of the room that led down to a circular room that had a number of hallways radiating from it like spokes radiating from the hub of a wheel. In the middle of the crypt was an old tomb the likes of which no one there had ever seen before. The top of the tomb had been carved in the likeness of a man and woman. It was even painted and gilded to the point that the figures almost looked alive.

The magician pulled off his plague mask, revealing himself to be Vindael. The others pulled off their masks, revealing his drummers, plus a rather plump woman who was carrying the baby.

"We need to get the lid off," Vindael said, gesturing to the tomb.

Three of his men hurried to the head and three to the feet. Together, they strained until the stone lid started to slowly slide sideways, grating against the sarcophagus below.

Vindael held up his lantern, watching carefully as the ancient tomb was opened inch by inch, revealing a suit of armor so rusty it looked as if it would crumble if touched. In a few places, the rivets and leather straps that held it together had already given way, causing the armor to separate. White bones—glowing in the candlelight—could be seen poking out of the disconnected armor.

"That's enough," Vindael pronounced once the tomb was a quarter of the way open.

His men breathed heavy sighs almost in unison and slumped against the lid.

Vindael leaned in and picked up a small bone lying amongst a pile of rusted metal plates.

"Close it back up," he commanded. The men took deep breaths, then set about trying to close the tomb lid again.

"Is that all you need?" the woman asked, eyeing the tiny bone in Vindael's hand. She was always asking questions and looking skeptical—not like his regular assistants who had complete and total trust in him. But she could be won over with proofs, and once she was certain of something, she never doubted again. So Vindael put up with her; it wasn't as if he hadn't spent most of his life convincing others of the truth. Besides, she was crucial for their endeavor; she would serve as the prince's wet nurse.

"Yes, this is all I need," Vindael answered her.

"It looks like you would need more," she hinted.

"If he's too much himself, I might not be able to control him. I need as much as I need and no more."

The tomb lid grated back into place and the men slumped against it again, breathing heavily. "Now . . . what . . . Master?" one asked.

"Now we let someone else do the work for us. Bring in my equipment."

Two of the men put their masks back on and left the crypt. Several minutes later, they returned carrying a cauldron, tripod, and a satchel full to bursting.

Vindael set to laying out his equipment. Everyone gasped in surprise when he conjured a fire under the cauldron without using wood or flame. But he continued as if he hadn't noticed them. He already took his ability to do magic for granted. It was he who had conjured the storm that drove them across the ocean against the wind and current. And once they crossed the line of storms that created a barrier between the human world and the Hylian world, it had been easy; the winds and currents on the Hylian side were favorable for taking them the rest of the way east. Once they made it to shore, they were able to move inland just as easily; the Hylians apparently didn't make war on one another, because no one was suspicious about them in the least, despite their strange clothing. The only thing they had to be careful of was to wear hats or hoods that hid their ears; all the Hylians had long, pointed ears that set them apart from the humans.

Once they made it to Castle Town, it had just been a matter of conjuring another storm to hide the magical knock-out gas that he also conjured to put everyone in Castle Town to sleep. It was supposed to last for several hours, so they had time to do what they came to do and get back out without anyone even knowing about them.

So far, everything had gone perfectly according to plan and Vindael had no intention of it being otherwise.

It took the better part of half an hour before Vindael put the finishing touches on the complex potion; there were over forty different ingredients and the measurements of some were so exacting, he couldn't have so much as one flake or grain too much. But he did it all with confidence; it was almost as if Ganon guided his hands.

At long last, there was only one ingredient left. He took the small bone he had taken from the tomb and, with a pause for dramatic effect—which got the attention of everyone else, who had grown a bit bored waiting for him to finish—he dropped the bone with a plop into the thick, grayish-purple stew bubbling in the pot.

As soon as the bone sank beneath the surface, the potion began to hiss and steam. Then the candles in their lanterns snuffed out and the fire beneath the cauldron guttered, nearly went out, then sprang up again in ghostly blue flames, dimming the tomb to the point they could barely see one another.

Then someone loudly gasped and the woman screamed as a black hand thrust itself up out of the cauldron. Vindael watched breathlessly, not feeling excitement so much as desire. Silently and eagerly, he was willing the creature to come into existence.

Another hand came groping out of the pot. Both hands took hold of the rim and began to pull. Ever so slowly, a head began to rise out of the soup. It was all black—not real and dimensional, like a person covered completely in soot, but like a shadow made solid—except for the eyes; those were small, red lights glowing out of the black, almost featureless face.

The body emerged, then the shadow-being slowly extracted its legs and stepped out of the pot. Even the dim light of the blue flames didn't illuminate or reflect on the dark figure; it was almost as if light could not touch him.

The figure stood obediently before Vindael. He could tell that it was male—although small of stature—and it had the pointed ears of the Hylians. It wore some sort of ridiculously long hat, but other than that, Vindael couldn't make out any other details as to its appearance. He supposed if it was possible that the creature could be seen in the light of day, it would resemble the man on the tomb.

"Do you know why I created you?" Vindael asked it.

The figure nodded once very slowly.

"Do you know what it is that you need to do?"

The figure nodded again.

"Good. Go do it. When you're done, rejoin us."

The figure nodded a third time, then slipped past the assembly as silently and smoothly as a ghost. They just blinked and he was gone. Then the flames guttered again and suddenly returned to their normal color.

Kyde visibly shuddered. "What was that thing, Master?"

"A shadow demon. It is created to be an exact doppelgänger of a specific person. It can do everything that its counterpart can—or could—do, and it knows everything that person knew, but unlike other demons of higher intelligence, it is completely within the control of the person who created it."

"Why do we need it?" one of the other drummers asked. He looked equal parts fearful and repulsed.

"Because only it can get what we need." Vindael waved his hand over the equipment. "Pack this up and we will away. Our shadow will catch up with us."

What he said suddenly struck him and he laughed, almost maniacally. The others hurried, huddled over in fear at his power as his laughter floated up to the barrel vault of the tomb.