A March into Darkness, page 6
Tristan took them. He placed the scroll in his lap, then closely examined the branch. A grim expression came over his face. He realized that he wouldn’t need to unroll the scroll. Lowering his head, he said nothing.
Shailiha gave her brother a puzzled look. “It’s only some freshly cut maple,” she said. “How important could it possibly be?”
Tristan looked over at his sister. “Frederick never told you?” he asked.
The princess shook her head. Frederick had been her husband, and Morganna’s father. He had also been Tristan’s best friend and the commander of the Royal Guard. He had fallen at the hands of the Coven on the night of Tristan’s aborted coronation.
Shailiha looked curiously at the tree branch. She had no idea what Tristan was talking about. “What does it signify?” she asked again.
“Indeed,” Wigg added. “Enlighten us all.”
Tristan had heard stories, but that was all: Even though he knew what the items symbolized, he couldn’t believe they had been presented to him. Looking back at Brent, Tristan held up the branch.
“Did you see Xanthus cut this?” he asked.
The boy nodded. “It was amazing.”
Tristan nodded. “I can only imagine,” he whispered. He turned to face the Conclave.
“This is a warning,” he said simply. “Xanthus is coming for me. He is telling me that he can best me in combat. He therefore expects me to surrender to him without a fight.”
Faegan wheeled his chair closer. “Tell us,” he said.
“These two symbols involve a tale of the Royal Guard,” Tristan explained. “Anyone who has taken Guard training is familiar with the fable. Wigg likely knows of it, too. It goes something like this:
“Long ago, an arrogant young Royal Guard captain challenged his elderly sword instructor to a duel. He apparently felt embarrassed for having his technique harshly criticized before his fellow officers. He sent a servant with a message for the instructor to meet him at dawn, with his second and his broadsword.”
Tristan looked over at the wizards. “Duels were once commonplace, weren’t they?” he asked.
“Yes,” Wigg answered. “A barbaric custom, more often about revenge than honor. The Directorate eventually outlawed the practice.”
Tristan nodded. “Anyway, when the young servant found the master and repeated his captain’s demands, the sword master said nothing. Instead, he chose to reply physically, rather than verbally.”
Interested as she was in all combat-related knowledge, Tyranny edged her chair closer. “What did he do?” she asked.
“The master tore a branch from a Eutracian maple tree, then tossed it into the air. With one swift movement, he pulled his sword from its scabbard and cleaved the branch before it touched the ground. The branch was sliced diagonally, just as this one has been. The cut was perfect in every respect. Since then, it is said that every Royal Guard member has tried to successfully duplicate that feat. To this day, no one has ever done so.”
“And then?” Shailiha asked.
“Saying nothing, the master picked up the cut branch and handed it to the captain’s servant. He also gave him a scroll, bound by a red ribbon. Then he simply turned and walked away. When the captain heard the story and saw the perfect cut, he wisely rescinded his challenge.”
“I understand the branch’s meaning,” Abbey said, “but what purpose does the scroll serve?”
Tristan handed it to her. “The red ribbon signifies the recipient’s spilled blood, should the scroll’s message not be heeded,” he said. “Read it for yourself.”
As Abbey untied the ribbon and unrolled the document, several eager Conclave members left their seats to come peer over her shoulder. After looking at the unrolled scroll, Abbey scowled. The scroll was blank.
“Why send someone a blank scroll?” she asked. “It communicates nothing.”
Tristan shook his head. “You’re wrong,” he said softly. “To those of us who understand, it says everything.”
He took the scroll back from her. “Just as in the story I told you, this blank scroll presented to me represents the other half of Xanthus’ message,” he said.
“And that is…?” Traax asked.
“That he has mastered the final stage of his weapons training,” Tristan answered. “Its teachings have supposedly never been put into writing. To keep this highest instruction secret, it was only handed down orally, from master to student. It is also said that such teachings are long lost. The Old Eutracian word for this final stage is K’Shari. Roughly translated, it means ‘The Eye of the Storm.’
“The blank scroll tells me that he has attained K’Shari, with the axe being his apparent weapon of choice. In other words, his technique has become effortless. Like this parchment’s serene emptiness, during battle his mind remains as placid as a hurricane’s eye while violence swirls all about him. The cut tree branch represents his prowess’s physical side. The empty parchment signifies the mental discipline he has gained. Xanthus might well be the foremost weapons master in the world.” He paused to let that sink in.
“There was supposedly a saying among those few who had reached the state of K’Shari,” he went on. “‘My ears hear no begging. My eyes see no pain. My heart feels no remorse.’ This was their credo.”
Annabelle’s eyes suddenly went wide. “Those were his exact words,” she whispered, “when he was torturing Alfred. Despite the horrific acts he was performing, he seemed completely at peace.”
For several long moments everyone was silent. Then Brent looked from the cut branch to Tristan, and to the golden sword hilt rising up from behind the prince’s right shoulder.
“Everyone says that you are a marvelous swordsman,” the boy said respectfully. “Perhaps the finest in Eutracia. Can you cut a branch that way?”
Tristan shook his head. “Not even with a dreggan. I know. I’ve tried.”
“And making matters worse, Xanthus also commands the craft,” Adrian added. “But what is a Darkling? Where did he come from? And most important, why is he here?”
With a deep sigh, Faegan pulled thoughtfully on his beard. “That is impossible to say,” he answered. “But I fear we will be meeting him soon enough, whether we wish to or not.”
“If his powers are as strong as they seem, it is only logical to assume that he can also cloak his blood,” Tristan mused. “Not to mention that he can become invisible. Like he warned us, trying to search him out would be pointless.”
He looked at Annabelle. “Xanthus carried an axe and shield, you say?” he asked.
Annabelle nodded. “The axe was the weapon he used to cut the tree branch in midair. The blade moved so fast that it was only a blur.”
Tristan looked down at the weary refugees. He knew that Wigg, Faegan, and Jessamay would be itching to discuss all of this in private. Suddenly the attack on the Citadel didn’t seem so important.
He gestured to Ox. The giant Minion clicked his boot heels together.
“Find adequate quarters and fresh clothing for these people,” Tristan ordered. “Until we better understand this new danger, they will be guests at the palace.”
“I live to serve,” Ox said.
Tristan looked back at his visitors. “Forgive me for making decisions on your behalf,” he said gently. “But unless you strongly disagree, I believe it best that you stay here—at least for now. I realize that some of you have lost loved ones,” he added. “We respect the fact that you are in mourning. But if you would like to attend tonight’s ball, you are welcome.”
As Ox led them from the room, Tristan turned to face the Conclave.
“We should return to the meeting room,” he said. “It seems there is far more for us to discuss.”
As the Conclave members moved to depart, Tristan picked up the perfectly cut tree branch and the blank scroll. He regarded them closely.
So the legend is true, he thought. K’Shari exists, after all. And one of its practitioners is coming. Lifting his face, he stared out over the vacant hall.
Just how good is this being? he wondered.
Still clutching the branch and the scroll, he started the long walk back to the Redoubt.
CHAPTER VII
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AS HE WALKED ACROSS BARGAINERS’ SQUARE, LOTHAR of the House of Fletcher felt his stomach growl. His dark eyes started searching out various food stalls. Soon he smelled freshly fried turkey, and his decision was made. But the stall where it was being cooked had already drawn a crowd. He knew that turkey legs always sold fast at a public execution. Today would be no exception.
When people saw who was coming, some made way. Rudely elbowing the others aside, Lothar glared at the elderly vendor.
“How much?” he demanded.
The vendor recognized Lothar. He immediately smiled—not because he wanted to, but because he realized that it would be in his best interests. The vendor stank of grease and oil. The turkey smell would permeate his clothes, his house, and perhaps even his soul, Lothar guessed.
Using wooden tongs, the vendor fished around in the boiling oil to retrieve a large, dripping leg. With a smile, he held it enticingly before Lothar. As if on command, Lothar’s stomach growled again, louder this time.
“Three kisa,” the vendor announced.
The stall’s proprietor had clearly seen better days. He was missing two front teeth, one ear, and a good deal of his hair. Lothar found himself hoping that none of the vendor’s disappearing facial features had recently found their way into the turkey pot. Trying to stay in Lothar’s good graces, the vendor widened his crooked grin.
“But for the master of Tammerland’s debtors’ prison, I’ll charge only two,” he added wryly.
“Wrong,” Lothar growled back. “For the master of Tammerland’s debtors’ prison, you’ll charge nothing.”
Reaching out, he swiped the turkey leg from the vendor’s grip, tongs and all. He blew on it to cool it, then took a large bite. He found it to his liking. Seasoned drippings ran down his chin, which he daintily wiped with an embroidered handkerchief.
Everyone in the crowd knew better than to protest Lothar’s thievery, so they remained still. Lothar was a powerful man. People on his wrong side could disappear for long periods of time—perhaps forever. He arrogantly pointed the half-eaten leg at the old vendor as though it were some kind of weapon.
“You’d best not protest the price I just paid,” he warned. “If you do, I might have to dust off several outstanding debtors’ warrants in your name. I’m sure you wouldn’t want that, eh?”
Despite the heat rising from his pot, the vendor’s face blanched. He gave Lothar a short, respectful bow.
“No, m’lord,” he answered quietly. “I’m always happy to accommodate one of Tammerland’s most respected officials.”
Answering only with a grunt, Lothar took another bite of turkey, then turned away to find the executioner.
It was midafternoon in Eutracia, and the sun was high. Bargainers’ Square was busy, and the impending execution added to the congestion. Once a hotbed of thieves, whores, drunkenness, and gambling, since the newfound peace, Tammerland’s largest square had become somewhat more respectable.
The prince’s roving Minions had helped to a great degree. Their eyes attentive and their swords always at the ready, a dark-winged patrol narrowly crossed Lothar’s path. Smiling unctuously, he gave them a short but secretly insincere bow. In truth he hated the wandering warriors, for their presence only made his thievery more difficult.
But if one knew where to look, all the vices that had once been sold so openly here could still be had. That pleased Lothar immensely, for vice always brought debt—and it was debt that brought him wealth. Contentedly munching his turkey leg, he crossed the street to stand before a shop window.
The reflection staring back at him was tall, with a hugely fat stomach. Knowing it would only make him appear more obese, he resisted the urge to turn sideways. Taking a deep breath, Lothar pulled his gut in for a moment. But such pretenses had no lasting effect, so he gave up, letting his belly sag over his belt again. In truth, he didn’t care how fat he became. He always bought his women, anyway. Even in the newly upright Bargainers’ Square, rich men never lacked for affection.
No one had ever accused Lothar of handsomeness. The face staring back at him was jowly, and pale from spending so much time indoors. What remained of his dark hair lay slicked down, across his shiny skull. His eyes were brown and his hooked nose long. His breeches, shirt, and waistcoat were of the finest material. Looking down, he could barely see the tips of his shoes for his protruding abdomen. But he knew that they were so brightly shined that his face would have been reflected in their tops. Tossing the ravaged turkey bone into the street, he got his great bulk moving again.
As he neared the executioner’s station, the crowd thickened. He smiled. Despite the new sense of goodwill, there still seemed to be no shortage of those wishing to see their fellow man suffer. Good, he thought. That always makes for more business. Wending his way through the crowd, his mind turned to how he had risen to his position in life, and how he had cleverly used that position to enhance his ever-growing wealth.
Crime adjudication had long been an illicit income source for those who arrested, tried, and punished Eutracia’s criminal element. The late Directorate had tried more than once to wipe out the corruption, but to no avail. Unless the wizards were willing to look into every crime personally—something they hadn’t the time to do—oftentimes only a well-placed bribe determined a person’s guilt or innocence. More often than not, the wealthy went free. With all but one Directorate wizard dead, the situation had worsened.
In most Eutracian towns, whoever administered justice also kept the bulk of the fines and forfeitures. It was a highly flawed system, literally begging thievery and corruption. Trials and punishments were public matters. But the identification, arrest, and imprisonment of the accused were details usually kept secret until then. As a result, town officials quarreled violently over who controlled the various jurisdictions. But Lothar’s situation was unique, in that he alone held sway over every debtor’s warrant in Tammerland. He also decided who did or did not go to debtors’ jail. He profited by every opportunity—sometimes more than once.
Young and seeking work, Lothar had become a debtors’ prison guard. The reigning provost had been old, sodden with liquor, and seemingly unaware of the unexploited chances for profit that his position offered.
But Lothar quickly saw what the old man did not. He saved every kisa he could—enough to eventually bribe the town burgher. Just before the old provost finally died, the crooked burgher awarded Lothar the post. That had been eight years ago, and Lothar’s wealth and stature had grown with each passing Season of New Life.
Other than his meager salary, there were illicit ways he profited from his position. The simplest was outright intimidation, such as he had just applied to the turkey vendor. He knew every shop owner who had outstanding debtors’ warrants filed against him or her. There were so many of them that he had paid for little from his own pocket for nearly five years. The understanding was simple. If they continued to supply him with what he needed, they remained free.
His many prisoners provided the other methods of profit taking. He alone had total control over who went in and who came out. Staying out cost a steep price; getting out commanded an even higher one. Oftentimes a person paid to remain free, only to be imprisoned anyway—especially if he or she had acquaintances that were well off.
Once inside, the prisoners’ relatives and friends would then be asked to contribute funds to secure his or her release, and the warrants would be quashed. Even a prisoner’s general treatment usually depended on yet more bribes, paid in the meantime. As one might imagine, these techniques yielded even greater profits if the internees’ relatives and friends had outstanding debtors’ warrants as well.
And so the vicious cycle went round and round, making Lothar not only wealthy, but feared. Having no wife or children to support helped his ill-gotten gains grow all the faster.
Pushing through the crowd, he wended his way to a small table that had been placed in the street. The town executioner, dressed all in black, sat there looking over some papers.
The fellow’s “civic responsibilities” included such talents as performing hangings, beheadings, slowly drowning victims in the dunking pool, and burning criminals at the stake. The crime determined the punishment. Today’s victim was a convicted horse thief, his crime punishable by a protracted, fatal dunking.
Lothar grinned down at the executioner. Even though the man wore a black hood, Lothar knew him well. Unknown to the spectators, the fellow was also an accomplished torturer.
Branding bare skin, flogging, precisely lopping off limbs and digits, and slowly extracting teeth and fingernails were but a few of the fellow’s favorite techniques. Lothar could attest to the man’s expertise, because on more than one occasion he had employed him for his own reasons. Kisa always flowed far more easily from debtor prisoners’ friends and relatives after watching him work on a loved one for an hour or so.
“Good morning,” Lothar said, being careful not to mention the fellow by name. The executioner looked up grudgingly from his paperwork.
“What’s so good about it, sir?” the hooded man asked. “It’s bleedin’ hot out here today. Dunkings take more time and effort than a quick hanging or beheading. A bleedin’pain in the arse, they are.”
Lothar turned to look at the dunking pool, lying off to one side of the square. The blindfolded horse thief was already tied to the chair. He was being roundly shouted at and pelted with rotten eggs, fruit, and vegetables—yet another custom performed at Eutracian executions. Lothar looked back to the executioner.
“Why complain?” he asked. “At least you’ll earn a fee today. And some extra as well, if you’re smart.” Hoping to put the other man in a more receptive mood, he reached into his pocket and jangled some coins together.
