A March into Darkness dobas-2

by Robert Newcomb

  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 wearthose!” 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-especiallyJin’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 usall, 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 fl
owers 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.”

  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 isK’Shari. Roughly translated, it means ‘The Eye of the Storm.’

  “The blank scroll tells me that he has attainedK’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.