A March into Darkness dobas-2

by Robert Newcomb

  Knowing better than to reciprocate without Wigg’s permission, Mallory looked at the First Wizard. Wigg thought for a moment, then nodded.

  Reaching out, Mallory took her father’s hand. It felt strong and warm, just like she remembered. But he was different now, and she knew she must always remember that.

  “Are you well?” Nathan asked. “You look so thin.”

  “The trip to Tammerland was difficult,” Mallory answered. “But I’m all right. You must learn to accept that this is what I want-what I’ve always wanted, ever since my first day at Fledgling House.”

  Nathan pulled his hand away. “Then so be it!” he said angrily. “But understand something, you foolish neophyte! So long as you wear that Paragon on your shirt and continue to love the Vigors, you’re no daughter of mine! Unless you are willing to devote your blood to the Vagaries, you’re dead to me! Until that day comes, don’t darken my door again!”

  Nathan’s words went through Mallory’s heart like a knife. Even so, she refused to be persuaded. She shook her head.

  “The Vigors are my chosen path,” she answered. “I can only hope that one day you will return to us. You might yet be the father I once knew.”

  Nathan shook his head. “Get out!” he shouted. “All of you!” The consul turned away.

  Looking at Mallory and Shailiha, Wigg nodded. While Nathan stayed behind, Wigg escorted the two women to the door, then released Nathan from his warp. Mallory stopped to look back.

  “Good-bye, Father,” she said gently. Nathan didn’t answer.

  As the door shut and the tumblers turned over, Nathan gazed into the fire. After a time, tears came. Burying his face in his hands, he slowly hung his head.

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  TRISTAN’S HEAD STILL LAY IN XANTHUS’ LAP AS THEwarm horse blood surged through his system. The prince slowly opened his eyes. Amid the howling wind and snow, the Darkling smiled.

  “So you decided to come back after all!” he shouted.

  Looking around, Tristan was shocked to see that his body had somehow been shoved into a horse’s gaping abdomen. Revolted by his situation, he started frantically squirming his way out. As Xanthus pushed him back, Tristan realized that he was too weak to fight the Darkling’s wishes.

  “You still need what little warmth the carcass can provide!” Xanthus shouted. “When no more remains, we will try to go on again!”

  “What happened?” Tristan asked thickly. His mind was groggy, but he could see that the Borderlands remained in their wintry state.

  “You fell unconscious from your horse,” Xanthus shouted back. “You were near death. To keep you alive, there was no choice but to kill my stallion and use his blood and body heat to keep you alive.”

  Suddenly concerned for Shadow, Tristan saw his stallion standing a few feet away. The horse was failing. Motionless in a knee-deep drift, his eyes were closed and his head drooped toward the ground. His back was blanketed with snow.

  Shoving his hands into the dead horse’s body cavity again, Xanthus discovered that it had finally gone cold. He looked back at the prince.

  “Can you walk?” Xanthus shouted at Tristan. “We need to get moving while we still can!”

  Tristan nodded. Crawling away from the dead horse, the prince rose shakily to his feet. As he pulled his blanket closer around him, Tristan tried to look through the swirling snow and toward the mountain gap. When at last he saw it, his heart fell. It looked as far away as when he and Xanthus had first exited the azure pass and stepped into the blistering desert.

  Xanthus walked over to retrieve Shadow’s reins from the deepening snowdrift. The horse came along weakly. After helping Tristan into the saddle, Xanthus started leading them toward the mountain gap.

  We won’t last long, the Darkling realized. But w emust try.

  An hour later, Xanthus stopped. He looked up at Tristan. The prince’s hair and shoulders were covered with snow, and he had fallen asleep again. At least this time he was somehow staying in the saddle. Reaching into a duster pocket, Xanthus removed one of the raw heart pieces he had been saving. He would eat half, then give the rest to the prince. Just as he bit into it, he sensed an eerie calm.

  The wind had suddenly died. With nothing to blow them about, the giant snowflakes fell straight to the ground. Then they stopped forming altogether, their sudden disappearances granting a clear view of the pearly sky.

  The Borderlands were starting to change again, but Xanthus had no clue about what form they might take next. Pulling on Shadow’s reins, he brought the horse to a stop. Still asleep, Tristan did not open his eyes.

  Like he was frozen in place, Xanthus stood warily in the snow, waiting and watching. He needed to be sure before using up Shadow’s last measure of strength. Then he saw the water forming around his boots.

  Knowing he hadn’t a second to lose, Xanthus mounted the horse behind the prince. Spurring Shadow for all he was worth he turned the stallion hard to the right, away from the distant mountain gap and toward the nearest mountain slope.

  Shadow struggled across the valley as fast as he could. But trudging through the heavy snow while also carrying two riders was nearly impossible. Suddenly the valiant stallion stumbled.

  Neighing wildly, he went down on one side, throwing Tristan and Xanthus to the snowy ground. As he got up, the Darkling didn’t waste time looking back, for he knew what was coming. If Shadow couldn’t outrun it, they were dead. The stallion finally fought his way back to his feet.

  Lifting the prince, Xanthus somehow got him into the saddle; then he climbed up. Whipping the reins against Shadow’s flanks, Xanthus again charged the horse toward the bordering mountains.

  As they reached the slopes, the Darkling heard a rushing sound chasing after them. Knowing that he couldn’t waste precious seconds to stop and look, he spurred Shadow up the rocky mountainside. The going was even slower here, because one false step from Shadow would send the horse and riders plunging to their deaths. But the higher they climbed, the less snow there was with which to contend. Soon Xanthus could hear Shadow’s iron shoes banging against solid rock.

  Only then did he finally stop the horse atop a wide, rocky ledge. He wheeled Shadow around, then looked behind himself to see that Tristan was still unconscious. He slapped the prince hard across the face. Xanthus was desperate for Tristan to see what was happening, because he believed the spectacle would strengthen theJin’Sai ’s will to live.

  At first Tristan didn’t come around. After harshly slapping him again, Xanthus grabbed the prince’s shoulders and shook him. The intense rumbling sound also helping to rouse him, Tristan slowly opened his eyes. Xanthus pointed down into the valley. The Borderlands’ snow was melting.

  But more than just the snow was morphing. The sky was slowly turning from ghostly white to heavenly blue. Speechless, Tristan watched as fluffy clouds arrived. Within seconds a bright, yellow sun formed, bathing the valley in its warmth. Then Tristan’s numbed mind fully appreciated the immense noise, and he saw its cause.

  As the temperature soared, the mountain snow melted, sending a gigantic wall of water rushing toward the valley. Majestically crashing and tumbling, it slammed its way along the valley floor in a torrent more powerful than any storm that had ever bedeviled the Sea of Whispers. Snow lying on the mountainside high above Tristan and Xanthus turned to warm water and came cascading down, showering them.

  As the water brought Tristan fully to his senses, he joyously stood in the stirrups and raised his arms to the sky, bathing in its life-giving warmth. Opening his mouth, he drank greedily. He was about to let go a delighted shriek when he saw Xanthus dismount. The Darkling motioned that Tristan should do the same.

  Soaked to the skin, Tristan walked to stand alongside the equally drenched Darkling. Tristan took a moment to rub Shadow’s face. Neighing softly, the horse seemed all right. Xanthus touched Tristan’s shoulder, then pointed toward the valley. As the water shower falling over them slowly abated, Tristan looked down.

&nbs
p; The valley waters were receding to show dark, rich soil. Soon the water was gone, to be replaced by another miracle.

  Tristan watched in amazement as the Borderlands burst forth with new life. Emerald grass shoots sprung fingerlike from the valley floor, growing to their full height in mere moments. Deep blue rivers materialized to meander their way across the land. Waterfalls burst from the craggy mountainsides, their crystalline waters cascading down into idyllic pools lying at the bases of the mountains ranges.

  Hearing more rumbling, Tristan saw trees sprout quickly from the ground, their unfamiliar species so many he couldn’t start to count them. Some grew to astounding size before blossoming with leaves and fruit, while the ground surrounding them literally burst open to accommodate their hugely expanding root systems. Just when he thought the process might be finishing, sentient life-forms appeared.

  Exotic birds appeared in the sky. Strange-looking insects buzzed and hummed, their swarms busily congregating on the colorful flower blossoms that now ranged so freely across the valley floor. Herds of strangely exotic beasts suddenly materialized to mill peacefully about. Stunned, Tristan simply tried to take it all in. It was like walking into a dream. He turned to look at Xanthus. The Darkling had returned to his spirit form.

  “This is the Heretics’ doing, isn’t it?” Tristan asked.

  Xanthus said, “The Borderlands have been dismantled. As I am sure you have gathered, magic has returned.”

  “Why would they do this now?” Tristan asked.

  “The answer is simple,” Xanthus said. “With the Ones’ army destroyed, the Borderlands are no longer needed. What you see before you is but a small part of this world. But beautiful and welcoming as it might be, it is time for us to go.”

  After they climbed atop Shadow, Xanthus guided the horse down the mountainside. Luxuriating in the sun’s warmth, Tristan nearly forgot his troubles as he simply relished being alive. On reaching the lush valley floor, Xanthus guided Shadow to a nearby tree.

  Tristan was amazed by it. The trunk and branches were bright scarlet, the leaves light blue. Pendulous fruit hung heavily from its branches, bending them nearly to the ground.

  Xanthus raised one hand. Two fruit pieces separated from the tree to come sailing through the air. They each caught one. The fruit’s skin was black, with pink spots. Tristan had never seen its like. They jumped down from the stallion to stand in the lush grass.

  Xanthus smiled. “Eat,” he said simply.

  Taking a throwing knife from its quiver, Tristan sliced open the fruit to find sumptuous, dark red meat and mustard-yellow seeds. Its aroma was intoxicating. Wasting no time, he started gorging himself. Even Shawna’s pies had never tasted so sweet.

  When he had finished, Tristan started to throw away the collected seeds. Grabbing his arm, Xanthus took them from him.

  “Watch,” the Darkling said.

  Placing the seeds onto his palm, he blew them into the air. Tristan watched as the craft carried them far away to fall in the deep grass. Almost at once they started sprouting. Within moments a new grove appeared, its trees identical to that from which they had picked the fruit.

  “Amazing,” Tristan breathed. “What is this place called?”

  “That is for the Heretics to answer,” Xanthus replied. “You will meet them soon enough.”

  Tristan turned to look at the faraway mountain range. Even though he and Xanthus had survived the Borderlands, they seemed no closer to their goal.

  “How can that be?” Tristan asked. “We still have so far to go!”

  “As I said, Jin’Sai, with the Borderlands’ passing, magic has returned,” the Darkling answered. Xanthus raised an arm. “Behold.”

  Tristan turned to see the azure pass forming. This time it stood on its own, without granite walls bordering its sides. Just like before, it seemed to shimmer with life. Tristan looked up to see that its upper limits stretched into infinity.

  “So your Forestallment can summon the pass and also allow us safe entry?” he asked.

  No,” Xanthus answered. “The pass was nearby all the time. We couldn’t see it in the Borderlands because magic was useless. In truth, our destination lies far beyond that mountain range. Mount your horse, Jin’Sai. The Heretics await us.”

  Xanthus climbed into the saddle, and Tristan jumped up to sit behind him. The Darkling turned Shadow toward the azure wall. They entered, and then they were gone.

  As they traveled through the pass, the same sensations as before flooded over the prince. Azure fog beckoned limitlessly. He could sense Xanthus sitting before him and Shadow moving beneath him, but little else registered. When he tried to speak his words were as useless as before. Also like before, time seemed to have no meaning. As the immeasurable journey continued, Tristan tired again. The last thing he would remember was trying to stay conscious and not fall from his saddle.

  “AWAKEN, JIN’SAI,” A VOICE SAID. “YOU HAVE TRAVELED FARand suffered much to reach us. No otherJin’Sai orJin’Saiou has succeeded as you have. Awaken, and behold.”

  Slowly opening his eyes, Tristan lifted his head. He looked around to become amazed beyond description. Then he saw the unfamiliar faces.

  “Welcome, Jin’Sai, ” one said. “Welcome to Crysenium.”

  CHAPTER XXIX

  AS A HANDMAIDEN PULLED A TORTOISESHELL HAIRBRUSHthrough Serena’s dark ringlets, the queen of the Vagaries looked down at her dressing table. Her withered red rose lay before her. Raising her head to stare out her sitting room window, she saw that the dark sea was calm as its waves gently lapped against the rocky shore. The sky was clear, its endless stars twinkling brightly.

  But she knew that this peacefulness would soon change. A war was coming-one that would finally end the Vigors for all time. Its stentorian call would come the day the Conclave sailed for the scroll. They had no choice but to try.

  She smiled. The prize the Conclave sought was no longer on the Citadel’s shores. They would waste their efforts, their forces, and their Black Ships, giving Einar and Reznik more time to succeed in their orders. For now she would obey the Heretics’ orders and remain on the island to guard the Citadel and her lifeless child. Looking into the mirror, she reached up to touch the handmaiden’s wrist.

  “That will be all,” she said. “You may retire.”

  The servant placed the hairbrush atop the dressing table and bowed. “As you wish, mistress,” she said. Leaving the queen’s chambers, she closed the door behind her. Serena again looked out over the sea.

  As she thought about Wulfgar, tears came. She had loved him more than life. Even though she was the Citadel’s undisputed ruler and she commanded many souls, she felt desperately alone. These chambers had provided her and her husband with many happy moments. Clarice had been conceived in these rooms. But now these chambers represented only loneliness. Instead of a family’s laughter, only silence reigned.

  The fact that all those living on the island with her were mere servants only added to her isolation. They were needed to achieve her goals, but they meant nothing more to her than that-especially the crude Valrenkians. She looked forward to the day when the Heretics’ triumph would be complete, and she could kill the inferior partial adepts. There would be no room for half-breeds in the new order. But until then she needed them, so she would wait. Victory would also bring the Heretics’ total dominion over the known world, and they had promised that she would rule all the lands east of the Tolenkas. Eager for her prize, she relished the possibilities such an august position offered.

  Even so, with Einar, Reznik, and all her envelopers gone, she had growing concerns about how her island was to be defended. The Heretics had told her that when the time was right, she would be informed. But it had been days since they last revealed themselves to her mind. Their continued silence increased her restlessness.

  Thinking, she lovingly took up the dead rose. The Citadel’s defense would be explained to her soon, she knew. Until then she had to be patient, and trust in the Heretics’
infinite wisdom.

  She detested this benign calmness before the storm, for it did nothing except accentuate her solitude. On Wulfgar’s death, at first her heart believed that what little they had shared would last a lifetime. Their love had been that strong, that deep, that rooted in common goals. At first, she had been right.

  But as her life became taken up with honoring the Heretics’ wishes, other needs resurfaced. She soon missed more than Wulfgar’s leadership. She yearned for the commanding way that he had always taken her. Her psyche needed it, longed for it, and demanded it. But there was no one here worthy of granting such intimacies to a widowed queen.

  Then she remembered the spell that Einar had told her about, just before leaving the Citadel. Because of its highly intimate nature, at first he hadn’t known whether to speak of it. After careful thought he’d decided that Wulfgar would want her to have it, to do with as she pleased. And so it was with no small measure of trepidation that he had visited the queen’s private chambers to discuss it.

  At first Serena was shocked by Einar’s forthrightness. He went on to say that he had happened on the unique calculations among the thousands of other spells, during his perusal of the Vagaries scroll. As she heard him out, her objections gradually softened. In the end she finally accepted the small parchment bearing the elegant symbols and numbers.

  Honoring Wulfgar’s memory, she had never read the parchment. Doing so would somehow be adulterous, disrespectful, she reasoned. But as another night passed with no one to comfort her, she found herself tempted. Perhaps she would only read the formula. Surely that could do no harm. She lay down the rose and opened her inlaid jewelry box. She called the craft, then levitated the wrinkled document within into the air. With a turn of her wrist she caused the paper to unfold itself.

  Bathed in the candlelight, the Old Eutracian formula appeared to have been written by a female hand. As she sat reading the calculations, she marveled at the synchronicity of events that had delivered this wonder to her.