A March into Darkness, page 5
Those in the crowd who had not already fainted watched, frozen by the Darkling’s spell, though shock and horror would probably have kept them silent and unmoving even without the use of the craft.
As the cords ripped into his back, he showed no pain, no slacking in his self-discipline. On and on it went, his strokes perfectly spaced, until he had finished one hundred lashes. As the moonlight beamed down, his blood ran into the thirsty dirt lying between the square’s remaining stones.
The Darkling stood and placed the bloody cords into a pocket, then donned his clothing again. The azure glow revisited him, returning his body to its original form. Xanthus released the crowd from his spell. The dazed citizens cowered as he walked back toward them.
“My work here is done,” he said, “but yours is not. My mandate to you is this: Assemble a group of your most trusted citizens, then ride hard for Tammerland. You are to request an emergency audience before the Conclave of Vigors. Tell them what happened here by the power I, a Darkling, hold. Tell the Jin’Sai that it will do no good to try and find me, because I can vanish like dust on the wind. I will visit him soon enough. If you disobey me, I will return to this place and more of you will die.”
He pointed to a nearby tree, and one of its branches tore loose to float in the air. As the flying branch approached, Xanthus drew his axe and cut it in half with a single motion. The two pieces fell to the ground. From a pocket he withdrew a white scroll bound with a bloodred ribbon. He tossed the scroll to the ground.
“See that the Jin’Sai is given the scroll and one of the cut branches,” he ordered. “He will understand.”
With a final glare at the crowd, Xanthus mounted his horse and headed out of town. As if bowing in shame, the foliage lining the street withered as he passed.
Just as the monster slipped into the darkness, he vanished.
CHAPTER VI
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THREE DAYS LATER, TRISTAN SAT ALONE ON HIS PRIVATE balcony, looking out on the newly landscaped grounds of the rebuilt palace. It was morning in Eutracia, and he wore only a blue silk robe. He was tired; sleeping had been difficult again last night. A lavish breakfast brought by Shawna the Short sat untouched before him. Shawna would be beside herself when she learned that he hadn’t eaten, but he just wasn’t hungry. He took a sip of lukewarm tea, then returned his gaze to the palace grounds. He sat there for some time, remembering.
Finally he stood and walked into the rooms that he had briefly shared with Celeste. The familiar scent of myrrh still clung to the bedsheets and pillowcases. It often caused haunting memories of her to enter his dreams. He sometimes awakened in the night, expecting to find her lying there beside him. When he remembered that she was no more, the tears always came, making him feel even more alone in the darkness.
He shrugged off his robe and dropped it onto an empty chair, then dressed. As he took up his dreggan a thought struck him. He slowly slid the sword from its scabbard.
The Conclave was convening this morning to discuss the impending attack on the Citadel and other important matters. How much longer would he need physical weapons like this? he wondered as he stared at the shiny, razor-sharp blade.
Faegan, Wigg, and the late Redoubt Wizards had abandoned the use of physical weapons once their gifts had become fully realized. When he was trained, would he do the same? He always felt naked without his sword and knives, and couldn’t imagine being without them. Sheathing the blade, he tossed the sword onto the four-poster bed.
He walked to the fireplace. On the mantel rested the urn containing Celeste’s ashes. Beside it lay her farewell letter. There was no reason to read it again—he knew it line by line. He closed his eyes for a moment, then turned away and walked back to the balcony to lean against the railing.
His recent behavior was hurting people he loved. He knew that, but sometimes the pain welled up so much that he couldn’t help it. Had his sorrow been only for Celeste, it would have been devastating enough. But when he also remembered the many others who had sacrificed their lives to the Vagaries, his sorrow morphed into sullenness, his sullenness sometimes deteriorating into outright rage.
Worse, until the Acolytes of the Redoubt learned to empower the Black Ships, there seemed little for him to do. Since the return of the Coven, Tristan had been a man of action, intent on destroying Vagaries practitioners wherever he found them. Whenever there was no enemy to fight, his restless spirit died a little. Eutracia was enjoying a peaceful time, and for that he was grateful. But without an enemy to face, this newfound peace was frustrating him.
The question that had haunted him since his experiences in the Well of Forestallments again came to mind. Who would she be, this woman the Scroll Master said would finally capture his heart? Where would she come from; what would she be like? Could he ever love someone more than he had loved Celeste? The mere thought was almost unbearable.
A knock came on the door, firm, insistent.
“Enter!” he called.
The doors parted to show Shailiha and Tyranny. Shailiha was wearing a simple green gown, with matching slippers and a Eutracian freshwater pearl strand. Her long blond hair caressed her shoulders. Tyranny was dressed as she had been since Tristan first met her, in black knee boots; striped, formfitting trousers; and a short leather jacket, its collar reaching nearly to her jaw. A sword hung at her left hip; a sheathed dagger lay tied down to her right thigh. Her short, dark, urchinlike hair looked as unruly as ever.
Tristan nodded to them. Shailiha gave her twin brother a cheerful smile.
“We’ve come to collect you!” she announced. “The meeting starts soon.”
“I’m aware,” he answered. He walked to the bed to take up his weapons.
A sudden idea came to the princess. Crooking a finger at Tyranny, Shailiha smiled and beckoned her to stand by Tristan’s wardrobe. Quietly she opened the double doors and looked inside.
Since the Coven’s return, it seemed that Tristan lived in nothing but his simple scuffed knee boots, black trousers, and matching leather vest. The wardrobe was full of beautiful finery that had hung unused for far too long. After examining the abandoned garments, she turned to her brother. There was an impish look on her face.
“I have an idea!” It was abundantly clear that she was trying to cheer him up.
“The masquerade ball is tonight! The palace will be full of people. It’s going to be grand, just like the old days! Why not let me help you choose something to wear?”
Having finally adjusted the dreggan baldric and knife quiver to his satisfaction, Tristan turned. He scowled when he saw the open wardrobe full of useless puffery.
He had forgotten all about the ball. In fact, he wished he could cancel it entirely. It had been the wizards’ idea. The nation had finally healed, they said. It was time to celebrate the peace by opening the palace to the populace, even if it was only for one night.
In the end, Tristan had reluctantly agreed. He knew his presence would be mandatory. But that didn’t mean he liked it.
The prince glowered at his sister. She countered his glare by folding her arms across her chest and impatiently tapping one foot on the floor. Tyranny smiled.
Tristan shook his head. “I hadn’t thought about it,” he answered.
Shailiha walked over. Pointing to his worn clothes, she shook her head and made a disapproving, clucking sound.
“Please don’t tell me you’re going to wear those!” she exclaimed. “There will be more than a smattering of young ladies there, eager for your attention! You have to look your best!”
The moment the words left her mouth, she realized how insensitive she had just been. Tristan’s face darkened. Trying to warn Shailiha, Tyranny cleared her throat.
The princess immediately went to her brother. She took his hands into hers.
“I’m so sorry,” she said quietly. “I should have known better.” She pulled him to her.
He closed his eyes again. “I should know better, too,” he answered gently. “You also understand what it means to lose the love of your life.”
“I know how much you hurt,” she whispered. “But each day gets a little easier. You’ll just have to trust me on that.”
Silent moments passed as he tried to believe her. Finally she let him go.
Gathering himself up, Tristan took a deep breath. “Now then,” he said, “I must oversee the meeting.”
He held out an arm to each of the women.
“By all means,” Shailiha answered.
The princess gave Tyranny a wink; then, with a look of mock ferociousness, she pointed her index finger into the air.
“We must not be late!” she said, imitating Wigg. “Such meetings are of the utmost importance!” Tyranny and Tristan laughed.
It is good to hear him laugh, Shailiha thought as they walked to the door. Especially now that it happens so rarely.
Entering the hallway, the trio headed for the Redoubt.
TRISTAN LOOKED ACROSS THE HIGHLY POLISHED TABLE, FIRST at Wigg, then at Faegan. “Give me a progress report on the acolytes,” he said. “How soon can the Black Ships sail?”
Wigg placed his gnarled hands flat on the table. The Paragon, hanging on a cord around his neck, twinkled in the candlelight.
“Two more weeks,” he said firmly. Then he added, “I know how badly you want to attack, but any sooner and we cannot guarantee that all the acolytes will be ready.”
He looked over at the First Sister. “Adrian has learned quickly, despite a few mishaps. If the others do as well, the ships’ seaworthiness will soon be ensured.”
Taking a moment to think, the prince looked past the table at the flames dancing in the blue marble fireplace. He purposely kept his eyes away from the empty chair to his right—Celeste’s chair. Her name was still inscribed on the back as a painful reminder of her absence. Pulling his thoughts together, he addressed Traax.
“How many fighting warriors do we still command?” he asked.
The Minion commander shook his head. “Not the number I would like,” he answered glumly. “Wulfgar’s second invasion force slaughtered too many.”
Tristan wasn’t in the mood for half answers. “How many?” he asked once more.
Traax sat up a little straighter. “I’m sorry, my lord,” he said. “At best—including the female warrior-healers led by Duvessa—we might summon fifty thousand. As you are aware, we do not know whether that will be enough to take the Citadel. Even worse, there are hardly enough fletchers, armorers, healers, cooks, and so on to support them.”
Tristan was about to respond when an insistent knocking came at the doors. Ox entered at Tristan’s command, and it was plain to see that the gigantic warrior was worried about something.
“What is it?” Tristan asked.
Ox bowed. “I be sorry to intrude,” he said in his broken Eutracian. “Visitors come to palace gates to request audience before Conclave. At first me not want to let them in. But they seem in bad way. They ride hard to get here. Lose three horses to the pace, they claim. I put them in Chamber of Supplication, then give them food and water. They wait for you there.”
“What do they want?” Abbey asked.
“Me not sure,” Ox answered. “But they say they must see entire Conclave—especially Jin’Sai.”
Tristan looked around the table. “Does anyone know what this is about?” he asked. They all shook their heads.
Tristan looked back at Ox. “They wish to see us all, you say?”
The warrior nodded. “Me believe that you should go. There be ten of them.”
Tristan nodded. “Very well,” he announced, and led the way out.
It took some time for the Conclave members to navigate the serpentine hallways that led to the Chamber of Supplication. On the way they passed dozens of servants—cooks, housekeepers, musicians—all hurrying to finish the preparations for that night’s masquerade ball.
Tristan sighed. We should be attacking the Citadel, he fretted. Instead, we will be foolishly feasting and dancing until dawn. Quickening his pace, he rounded the final corner to stop before the pair of massive doors that barred the way into the Chamber of Supplication. Each door was adorned with a golden roaring lion superimposed by a golden Eutracian broadsword: Together, they comprised the House of Galland’s heraldry. At Tristan’s signal, the two Minion guards on duty swung the doors open. He quickly led his group into the room.
The recently renovated chamber sparkled with cleanliness. The morning breeze flowed through opened stained-glass windows, gently moving the patterned draperies. The smell of fresh-cut flowers permeated the air. Pillars of sunlight streamed in, highlighting the violet walls and ceiling, and the black-and-white checkerboard floor. Hundreds of upholstered chairs sat in neat rows on the floor before the dais. This was the hall where the late king and the onetime Directorate of Wizards had heard specific requests from the populace. Such meetings had always occurred on the first of each month. Supplicants by the hundreds had always arrived, each seemingly bearing a request more urgent than the last. If the need had been found to be in the nation’s best interests, it was often granted. The wizards had yet to suggest that Tristan reinstate this old custom, but he knew it would be only a matter of time before they did.
Tristan made his way to the dais, where a row of high-backed chairs waited. From that vantage point, he looked down at the people who had come to see him. Although not one seemed injured, they all looked to be in a bad way, and all of them—five men, four women, and one young boy—were so intent upon a table that had been laid with food and drink that they hadn’t even noticed the arrival of the Conclave members. Watching them eat, Tristan realized that Ox had done the right thing by bringing them here.
Tristan decided he wanted Shailiha at his right side and Wigg at his left. As he directed them to their seats, the beleaguered citizens below finally realized that the Conclave had entered the room. Plates and goblets were set back on the table with a clatter.
A middle-aged woman with dark hair clambered up the carpeted steps to stand directly before the prince. A blond-haired boy of about seven Seasons of New Life followed her. They looked filthy and exhausted.
The woman started crying. To Tristan’s surprise, she threw herself at his feet, wrapping her arms around his knee boots. Bending down, he gently lifted her chin so she could look up at him.
“You’re safe here,” he said quietly. “What troubles you so?”
There was more than terror in her eyes. This woman was also grieving some awful loss. The little boy came to stand by her side. A worn haversack lay slung over one of his shoulders. Awestruck by royalty, he respectfully removed his weathered cap, then looked to the floor.
“Something terrible has happened, my liege,” the woman said in a quavering voice. “Charningham—our village—so many dead…” Her voice trailed off into more weeping.
Tristan turned to look at Wigg.
“I am Wigg, the First Wizard,” Wigg said gently. “What is your name?”
Trying to compose herself, the woman scrubbed her face with her palms. “I am Annabelle,” she answered weakly. “This is my son, Brent. My husband and four others were tortured and killed four days ago by a strange being of the craft. He told us to come here, to give the Conclave a warning. I have never seen anything like him. He wasn’t human…”
Tristan helped the woman to her feet; she buried her face into his shoulder. He ordered Ox to fetch chairs from the chamber floor. Soon all ten visitors sat on the dais, facing the Conclave members.
“Please tell us what happened,” the prince said. “Leave nothing unsaid.”
For the next hour, the refugees related the tale. Brent told about seeing the Darkling—Xanthus—cross the Sippora River, and then how he and his father had been taken back to Charningham. The adults described the savage torture, the senseless killings, and the Darkling’s bizarre self-mutilation. Finally Annabelle recounted the warnings Xanthus had given them, and how they were to be conveyed to the Conclave. When the group finally finished, the only sound came from the swishing window curtains as they obeyed the afternoon breeze.
Tristan looked over at Wigg, Faegan, and Jessamay. If anyone knew what these beleaguered people were talking about, it would be they. “What is a Darkling?” he asked.
“I do not know,” Wigg answered. The First Wizard looked at Faegan, then Jessamay. They both shook their heads. Wigg looked back at Annabelle.
“Did Xanthus say where he was going next?” he asked.
The widow shook her head. “Only that if the prince did not obey, there would be more sacrifices,” she answered. “But he did say that there was no use trying to find him, for he could become ‘dust on the wind.’ As he rode out of town, all the foliage in his path died. Then he simply disappeared.”
His eyes alight with curiosity, Faegan wheeled his chair closer. “What did you just say?” he asked anxiously. “About the foliage, I mean.”
“All the plants around him die,” Brent answered for his mother. “Even big trees wither. It was the same with the Sippora when his horse came wading toward father and me. It simply stopped flowing.” His eyes filled with tears, and he bravely brushed them away.
Just then Brent remembered something. After fishing about in his haversack, he produced a section of tree branch and a rolled-up scroll. The branch, hardy Eutracian maple, was about twice as thick as a grown man’s thumb. One end was ragged, showing where it had been ripped away from its host. The other end was cut diagonally, its severed edge smooth as glass. The scroll was bound by a bloodred ribbon.
Brent handed the branch and the scroll to the prince. “Xanthus told me to give these to you. He said that you would know what they meant.”
