The more Tristan considered his plight, the less convinced he became that he was making the right choice by fighting the Darkling’s wishes. If Xanthus had been granted time enchantments, the passing days would mean nothing to him. How many more would die? Could the alternative be worse?
Turning in his saddle, he tried to look at Xanthus’ profile. There was little to see of the grotesque face, hidden as it was by the Darkling’s hood. Despite how much he hated Xanthus, Tristan found the silence maddening. Seeking answers, he guided Shadow closer.
“Why don’t the grass and flowers die today?” Tristan asked. “Does the answer have something to do with your human half?”
Xanthus did not look over. “In a way,” he answered. “But no more than it concerns my Darkling side.”
“I don’t understand.”
“We are far from Tammerland,” Xanthus said. “I sense no imminent danger, so myK’Shari is not being employed. The phenomena to which you refer are simply its by-products.”
“So yourK’Shari is not ever-present,” Tristan mused. “Rather, you call on it during times of danger-like during the masquerade ball, or when you are torturing a victim. Then yourK’Shari becomes active and the foliage dies. But why would a simple martial discipline cause such strange happenings? Does it have to do with the craft?”
“There is nothing simple about it,” Xanthus countered, “but I see no harm in explaining its basics.” Turning toward Tristan, the Darkling’s glowing eyes bored themselves into his.
“K’Shariis a state of martial enlightenment that can be gained in two different ways,” Xanthus explained. “One method is to devote one’s life to mastering the combative arts. Once the physical side has been perfected, the needed mental training may start. In your world’s entire history, K’Shari has been gained by only a handful of practitioners. There were so few that the art nearly died out. These days, only one such Eutracian possesses the skill. So far, not one of this master’s students has succeeded in reaching their teacher’s degree of enlightenment. If one does not succeed soon and the master dies, K’Shari might vanish from your world forever.”
“Who is this great teacher?” Tristan asked.
Ignoring the question, Xanthus looked forward again.
“Very well,” Tristan said. “At least tell me about the other method of gainingK’Shari. ”
“The other way is available only to those owning endowed blood,” Xanthus answered. “That is how I attained the gift. Simply put, it can be granted by Forestallment. The needed calculations are found in both scrolls of the ancients.”
Thinking to himself, Tristan sat back in his saddle. “That does not answer my question,” he pressed. “When yourK’Shari is employed, why do the plants die, and the creatures still? It’s almost like they know, somehow.”
“In a way, they do,” Xanthus answered. “WhenK’Shari is summoned by a craft practitioner, the effect is far stronger. The calmness is so pervasive that it affects nearby life-forms and forces of nature. Wind and water stop flowing. Nonsentient life-forms like plants and trees slow so much that some wither and die. Moderately sentient beings-like animals, insects, and birds-are also slowed or simply flee. Humans don’t sense the effects, but they do observe these highly unnatural occurrences. As I travel away, the pervasive calm moves with me. The rivers and wind flow again after I leave, and the creatures return.”
After riding for a time in silence, the Darkling asked, “Have you decided to join me on the other side, Jin’Sai? How many more must die before you come to your senses?”
Tristan remained silent.
“Very well,” Xanthus said. “It seems I must add an incentive.”
Tristan stiffened. “What do you mean?”
“The next time an opportunity avails itself, you will aid me in my tasks,” Xanthus answered. “That should make you more agreeable.”
Suddenly enraged, Tristan brought Shadow up short. He glared hatefully at the Darkling. “I won’t do it!” he shouted.
Xanthus also stopped his horse. Like he was tutoring some insolent schoolboy, the Darkling shook his head. “Tell me, Jin’Sai- during the brief but eventful time you have known me, have I ever made a false threat?”
Tristan’s jaw hardened. “No,” he answered softly.
“Just so,” Xanthus said. Saying nothing more, they got their horses moving again.
An hour later, they came to some structures sitting along the Sippora’s western bank. Tristan saw a thatched cottage, a barn, and a water-powered gristmill. The gristmill’s paddlewheel was being turned by the swiftly moving Sippora. Xanthus stopped his horse.
The Darkling smiled. “There can’t be many people there,” he said, “but it will do for today. It’s such a pretty picture. I wonder if there are any children about.”
Tristan couldn’t believe his ears.“Children?” he wailed. “You cannot mean that!”
Xanthus glared back at him. “You’re in no position to give orders!” he growled. “That is, unless you accompany me to the pass this instant!”
Tristan hung his head. “Ican’t!” he whispered. “You know that!”
“Then hide your face, Jin’Sai, ” the Darkling ordered. “Because of your stubbornness, more innocents are about to die.”
His hands shaking with rage, Tristan reached beneath his vest to produce the hated black mask. After securing it over his face, he followed Xanthus toward the unassuming buildings.
The house was a simple one. It was built of fieldstone and mortar, and its roof was neatly thatched. By the look if it, it held only a few rooms. A colorful bantam rooster arrogantly squired his hens about the yard. The house was surrounded by a split-rail fence, and a stone walkway lined with wildflowers wound its way toward the front door. No lights shone through the cottage windows, nor did smoke curl from the chimney top, though Tristan guessed they would when darkness fell and the night air cooled.
As expected, the barn was larger. Its wooden doors hung open. Numerous grain sacks lay stacked against the inner walls, and its upper story was filled with hay and straw. A small corral was attached to one side, and three strong plow horses roamed its confines. Tristan knew that the horses would be used to turn the great millstones during the Season of Crystal, should the Sippora freeze over.
The mill was large, even by provincial standards. The square, two-story building was painted red. The gristmill’s paddles continually dipped into the quickly moving Sippora only to rise and fall again, and their connecting wheel lay attached to the mill sidewall facing the river.
The owner had cleverly multiplied the current’s power by placing dams in the river, thereby concentrating the water flow. This created a narrower, more rapid current to more speedily rotate the wheel. Pull levers led from the shore to a series of sliding dam doors, to adjust the current’s course and speed. With each revolution the paddlewheel squeaked pleasantly.
Xanthus dismounted and beckoned the prince to do the same. They tied their horses to a corral rail. Xanthus immediately started walking toward the mill. Tristan warily followed.
To the prince’s relief, there was no one inside. The floor was deeply littered with crushed grain husks. Turned by the paddlewheel, a flat, circular under-stone supported a smaller one, grinding against its topside. Another lever system provided the means to lift the upper-stone from its mate.
Had people been working here, they would have been crushing grain between the two stones. The grist would then be sacked and sent downstream on barges to such cities as Tammerland and Far Point. Business seemed good for the mill owner, for dozens more grain sacks lay stacked against the walls, waiting to be emptied. As the squeaky paddlewheel revolved, the comforting smells of crushed wheat, corn, and barley filled the air.
For the first time since meeting Xanthus, Tristan smiled. “How disappointing for you,” he said nastily. “There is no one here to kill.”
Smiling back, Xanthus turned his glowing eyes toward the prince. “Is that so?” he asked. “Then why
do the horses remain in the corral, and their saddles still hang on the barn wall?”
Just then they heard a door squeak open on the mill’s western side. With the setting sun at his back, a man stood squarely in the doorway. He held a pitchfork in his hands. Ignoring the Darkling for the moment, he glared straight at Tristan.
“No one wears a mask unless he plans to rob you!” he growled.
His voice was elderly, but strong. Standing his ground, he raised the pitchfork a bit more. He defiantly spat a dark wad of chewing tobacco toward the husk-covered floor.
“State your intentions,” he ordered, “or I’ll kill you where you stand!”
Xanthus didn’t hesitate. Raising one hand, the Darkling called the craft. The pitchfork was torn from the man’s hands to fly across the room; its tines embedded themselves into the opposite wall.
Xanthus moved his fingers. At once the man was lifted into the air. As Xanthus brought him closer, the helpless miller stared back in disbelief.
“Who…what…are you?” he whispered.
“I am from another world,” Xanthus answered. Using his free hand, he pointed to the prince. “This man in the mask is my assistant,” he added. “As an incentive to help me change his stubborn ways, he is going to help kill you.”
“Are you…a wizard?” the man asked.
Xanthus smiled. “No,” he answered. “I am more powerful than any wizard ever born.”
Xanthus closed his eyes. He was summoningK’Shari, Tristan guessed.
Walking outside, the Darkling caused the terrified man to follow him through the air. His heart in his throat, Tristan went with them. As Tristan neared the river, his suspicions were confirmed.
The Sippora had stopped flowing, as had the wind. No creatures stirred. Like they had been frozen in time, the chickens and the horses stood stock-still. With no current to power it, the paddlewheel squeaked to a slow stop. The total stillness felt deadly.
Waving one arm again, Xanthus caused the man to go flying. The miller landed hard, facedown atop the paddlewheel’s zenith. His head was facing downstream, and his arms and legs hung over the wheel’s opposite sides. Xanthus quickly generated a wizard’s warp, holding the man fast.
With tears gathering in his eyes, Tristan looked at the elderly miller trapped atop the wheel. He appeared to be about sixty Seasons of New Life. He was dressed in simple farm clothes, and his body was still lean from years of hard work. His face was tan, his jaw strong. His thick hair was silvery-gray. In some ways, he was reminiscent of the First Wizard.
Xanthus looked at Tristan. “Shall we start?” he asked. “This time you’re going to participate.”
Other than going to the azure pass, Tristan knew there was nothing he could do or say that would change the Darkling’s mind. Clearly, Xanthus would continue with these gruesome killings until Tristan relented. Even so, all the prince could do was to shake his head.
“Very well,” Xanthus said.
The Darkling closed his eyes. Tristan soon realized that Xanthus was no longer summoningK’Shari.
As the Sippora quickly regained its strength, the paddlewheel started to turn. Screaming, the miller headed down toward the rushing water.
As he went under, the struggling miller tried to hold his breath. Coming out on the other side, he gasped desperately for air while trying to regain his senses. As the wheel turned and the man started to go under again, the Darkling looked at the prince.
“It seems the wheel is moving too fast,” he said. “You are going to slow it for me, keeping him under longer.”
Tristan looked at the Darkling like he was insane. “If you must kill him, it will be without my help!” he shouted. Looking back at the wheel, he saw the man submerge for the second time.
“Is that right?” Xanthus asked. “Let’s see if I can persuade you.”
As the mill owner came out of the water for the second time, it was clear that he was weakening. Gagging and coughing, he looked at the Darkling with glassy eyes.
Raising one hand, Xanthus called upon the craft to adjust the levers controlling the dams. As the current was directed away from the wheel, it stopped turning. This time the wheel stopped with the miller in an upright position along one side.
Xanthus stepped closer. He looked up at his victim. “Tell me,” he asked, “how many hide inside the farmhouse?”
Shivering uncontrollably and trying to catch his breath, the miller shook his head. “There is…no one!” he shouted. “I live alone!”
Xanthus nodded. “I see,” he answered. “Since that is the case, you won’t mind if I look for myself.”
Suddenly an even greater sense of panic overtook the helpless captive. “What are…you going to do?” he begged.
Saying nothing, Xanthus turned toward the house. He raised one arm.
The farmhouse immediately erupted into flames. Soon the front door burst open. Screaming wildly, an elderly woman and young girl ran through the door. Just as they passed the split-rail fence, the entire structure went up in a raging fireball. In mere moments there was nothing left of it.
Seeing the man atop the wheel, the woman fell to her knees and started wailing. The terrified girl clutching the older woman’s arm looked to be about eight or nine Seasons of New Life.
Xanthus looked at the mill owner. “Your wife and daughter?” he asked.
“My…wife and granddaughter,” he answered weakly. “Do what you will with me, but please don’t harm them! They’re all I have left of my family! My son and daughter-in law were killed during the failed try to invade Eutracia!”
Xanthus pointed to Tristan. “All your fates depend on this man,” he said. “You should be pleading to him, not me.”
The miller turned his head to look at Tristan. His desperate eyes stabbed their way into the prince’s heart.
“Please!” he cried out. “I beg you! Whatever he wants from you, you must give it!”
Xanthus walked closer to the prince. “Indeed,” he said quietly. “Who are you, to let these innocents die? Come through the pass, Jin’Sai, and I’ll let them live.”
Completely overcome, for a moment Tristan believed that his helplessness would drive him mad. Unlike the other victims, this was the first time that one had begged him personally. His heart breaking, he looked hatefully into Xanthus’ glowing eyes.
“No,” he whispered.
Xanthus shook his head. “Because you continue to be obstinate, it is time for your direct participation.” Xanthus pointed to the lever system on the river bank.
“Throw the levers to open the dams,” he ordered. “When your victim is fully submerged, close them again, leaving him under.”
Balling his hands into fists, Tristan shook them at the sky. “No!” he screamed. “I refuse to help you in this madness!”
Taking another step closer, Xanthus glared at him. “Do as I say, Jin’Sai, ” he whispered. “If you continue to refuse, I’ll start on the child.”
Tristan frantically turned to look at the girl and her grandmother, then back at the miller. His mind was awash with guilt about what might happen next, and his body shook uncontrollably. Finally deciding, he shamefully looked at the ground.
“I will go with you,” he whispered, his voice breaking.
What have I just done? he asked himself. He looked at the Paragon, still hanging around Xanthus’ neck and shining brightly in the setting sun. By saving these people, have I also destroyed the craft?
Xanthus smiled. “Well done,” he said.
Releasing his wizard’s warp, Xanthus sent the miller crashing into the river. His wife and granddaughter ran to him and helped him ashore. Although he seemed near death, Tristan guessed that he would live.
As Tristan sadly looked west, the smell of charred wood teased his nostrils. Looking past the ruined house, he saw the snowcapped Tolenkas sparkle in the setting sun. What will it be like on the other side? he wondered.
He hatefully looked back at the Darkling. The glowing eyes regarded him
calmly.
The glow of the craft again surrounded Xanthus. His persona soon melted away to be replaced by his human side. As the prince took in the sensual face, for the briefest moment he thought he saw tears in Xanthus’ eyes, but then they were gone.
Xanthus took the black knotted cord from his duster. He removed his duster and robe, then dropped them to the ground. Turning west to face the Tolenkas, he sat on his knees in the dirt.
The one hundred self-imposed lashes came across his back accurately, deliberately. Soon his azure blood ran down to be absorbed by the thirsty dirt. When it was over, Xanthus stood. He put on the robe and duster. The glow came again, restoring his Darkling side. The stunned miller and his family could only look on in unbelieving horror.
Xanthus walked to the prince. The glowing eyes seemed even more self-assured.
“It’s time,” he said simply. “Mount your horse. You are about to witness such wonders as you’ve never dreamed possible.”
Tristan did as he was told. Wheeling Shadow around, he took a last look at the family he had saved.
But at what cost to the world? he wondered.
The miller’s sobbing wife held her husband and granddaughter close, like she couldn’t believe they had survived. As she looked at the prince, he saw that her teary eyes were a soft, limpid blue. Bowing her head, she tacitly gave him her heartfelt thanks.
Mounting his horse, Xanthus prodded the stallion to a place alongside Shadow. The two riders started toward the Tolenkas and disappeared.
CHAPTER XIX
SOMETIMES THE PAIN SEEMS TOO GREAT FOR EVEN MY HIGHLYendowed blood to withstand, she thought. She closed her teary eyes. But with the Heretics’ help, our plan has been set in motion. Soon my grief will be avenged.
Serena opened her eyes and looked around the room. Like every morning, the lush, red rose petals covering the crypt floor were fresh, and their familiar scent filled the air. The dawn’s first rays streamed in through the open skylights, and songbirds could be heard greeting the morn. As always, two specially chosen handmaidens stood quietly in the room’s far corners.
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