For a long, long moment there was silence. Tristan’s ears strained for sound. None came. He had done it. Slowly, he put the cane down on the table. In a daze, he stumbled toward the door.
He stepped over a large fragment of mirrored glass. There was a movement, something more than a simple reflection of his own motion. Shaking, Tristan bent down for a closer look. There it was again—a swirl of colors. “What …?” he breathed.
A claw-fingered hand shot up from inside the mirror. It closed on his ankle. Tristan cried out sharply, incoherently, and frantically tried to catch hold of the table leg, a chair, anything to halt his descent. But the thing clutching him was too strong, too swift, and Tristan was dragged into the world of the mirror.
Tristan floated unsupported in a silver, reflective space. There was a source of light somewhere, but he could not see it. He seemed to have company. Dozens of Tristan Hiregaards, all equally suspended in space, all looking equally ragged and frightened, surrounded him. There were reflections of reflections, and Tristan found himself clutching his own chest to reassure himself that he was indeed the true Tristan.
“Malken!” he cried. His voice was shimmery, silvery, a musical note in this unnatural, bizarre land of mirrored phantasms. “Malken, show yourself!”
“You wish to fight me in my world, eh, Tristan?” The voice was inside his head and sounded perfectly normal. “Then you must fight with my rules. I am part of you, Tristan Hiregaard, though you may deny that to your dying day—which could be imminent.”
Suddenly the force that kept Tristan suspended released its hold. Tristan spiraled downward, his limbs flailing in a vain attempt to halt his progress. Another struggling, frightened Tristan rushed up to meet him, and Tristan realized he was about to hit a mirrored surface. He braced himself for impact. Instead, he felt cold and wet, as if he had plunged into icy water from a high distance. He gagged, choked and sputtered as everything went dark. Suddenly he could see again.
He looked around wildly. As before, he was surrounded by his own reflection—but this time, the images were joined by hideous reflections of Malken as well. He drew his sword, his eyes frantically searching the images, trying to locate the real Malken amid the jumble of illusions.
“The cult of Sehkmaa could have gone on for years,” the hundreds of Malkens said. Many mouths moved to the words spoken by a single voice. Tristan tried to hone in on the sound, but he couldn’t pinpoint it. “Long enough for these children to grow up and have children of their own. You’ve trod upon generations, Tristan Hiregaard, with your heavy boots of so-called justice.”
“It was justice!” cried Tristan, nearly weeping. “What kind of life would you have given them? Raised them to be thieves and murderers like yourself?”
“Oh, no, into grave robbers, oath-breakers, and murderers like you,” Malken answered, grinning. “Come, come, Tristan, I know you better than you realize. Maybe that nasty experience with your wife and son and best friend was a little hard for you. I can understand that. But killing Rozalia, making my well-trained cats go mad, battling animated corpses guarding body parts they can’t use anymore—wasn’t that just a little, well, fun?”
Tristan exploded with fury and lunged for the nearest Malken. His weapon, swung with all his strength, shattered a mirror instead of living flesh.
“I thought so,” smirked Malken. Again Tristan attacked, and again struck only mirrors.
“Fight me, damn you, if you’re so sure you’ll win!” His voice was a hoarse yell now, and his eyes were wild as he glanced around at dozens of Malkens. As one, they threw back their heads and laughed. Then the figures winked out, one by one, replaced by a silvery floor beneath his feet and a single Malken standing in front of Tristan. Malken’s grin nearly split his diabolically ugly face.
“Come for me,” he invited in a voice that was almost a purr. He raised his sword.
Tristan needed no second invitation. Grunting, he launched himself at Malken, his sword a swift and deadly extension of his arm. He fought with even more desperation and skill than he had displayed with Kethmaar’s animated body, infusing into his fighting everything he loathed about Malken. Yet, unbelievably, Malken parried every strike almost nonchalantly. Blow after blow was dealt, and not a one scathed Tristan’s enemy. Nor was Malken, in his own attack, able to land a blow on Tristan. Blades locked, and the two faces, one snarling and sweating, the other calm and gloating, were within inches of one another.
Without warning, Malken’s face melted, changed, into Tristan’s own. But he wore an expression of gleeful malice that Tristan’s visage had never known. Tristan, startled, cried out and broke off, backing up to regain his composure. He and Malken circled one another in half-crouched positions.
“I know all your tricks, Tristan,” hissed Malken. “I know every blow you’ll make. And, naturally, you instinctively know what I’m about to do.”
He feinted, and of course Malken’s blade was there to stop the blow from striking home. He feinted again, thinking to trick his adversary, but again Malken knew where to strike. And when Malken suddenly surged forward with a barrage of sword blows that jarred Tristan’s arm, Tristan’s own sword met his evenly. They both leapt back. Tristan continued moving, panting, trying to forget strategy and surrender to simple and unpredictable instinct. Every time he tried, though, Malken met his blows with his own brutal wildness.
Again, they broke apart, circling like two wary plains cats. The hours without sleep, the stress, and his injuries conspired now to weary Tristan. He feared for the weakness of his body but saw that Malken, too, bore every injury and strain he himself had suffered.
“There is no winning this, Tristan, not for either of us,” growled Malken. “Even if you were to slay me here, in this mirror, the only place the two of us can meet face-to-face, you would lose.”
“Why?” snapped Tristan. “If killing you means I die, then that’s a price that I’ll gladly pay.”
“Oh, of course you would,” countered Malken, easily ducking Tristan’s sword. “That would be no sacrifice at all. But what about the Nova Vaasa whose protection you claim to be devoted to, hmm? With me gone, what will happen to your beloved country? Her people?” He leered. “The souls of her dead?”
“They’ll be free!” screamed Tristan in the tones of the righteous.
“Oh, no,” replied his nemesis. “I am Nova Vaasa, just as I am you. Make no mistake, Tristan, this land has changed since you last really looked at it. This place likes evil. It keeps it safe. Eliminate Malken, eliminate the part of yourself that revels in sin and corruption, and Tristan is next in line for my throne. You’ll rule with a far harsher hand than I do. You see, I have you to hamper my plans. You would have no conscience named Tristan to worry about. Is that really what you want?”
“You’re an evil thing, Malken! Why would I want to become like you? You represent everything I hate!” He had paused, laboring to catch his breath, unwilling to hear Malken’s reply and yet desperate for it.
Malken, too, did not press the advantage Tristan offered. Instead, his smile widened. “What is good without evil to combat? What are you without me to hate? Look at yourself, Tristan. You’re a murderer of your friend and of innocent children. You’re a user of dark magic. You’re a grave robber. Don’t you see that you need me?” He threw back his head and laughed. “Tristan Hiregaard, I’m all that keeps you good!”
Tristan’s mind reeled. Despair clutched at his throat, the kind of black, drowning despair that a suicide tastes the instant before the blade plunges home or the noose snaps tight. Was this fiend—this inhuman yet so very, very human monstrosity—right in the end? Could Tristan’s victory over Malken spell not a true success but disaster? Were his only choices to stay locked in a fight for eternity with a man who exemplified the dark corners of Tristan’s own soul or else become the very thing he hated? The thought weakened him, and when Malken began a volley of new attacks Tristan very nearly was bloodied.
Malken sensed a change in h
im and smiled in triumph. Instead of renewing his attack, however, Malken did something entirely unexpected. He tossed his blade away, spreading his arms in a mocking gesture of welcome. Taken utterly by surprise, Tristan hesitated, fearing a trap of some sort.
“Surrender, Tristan!” Malken invited, his voice speaking in Tristan’s own commanding tones. “End this senseless conflict. We cannot defeat one another, so why must we even try? Come to me, merge with me, let us become one whole entity at last. There’ll be peace in it for you. Rest, Tristan, rest. Lay down your burden. There is no Sehkmaa, but there is peace in surrender.”
He took a step forward, his horrible face now smiling, inviting. Tristan felt his sword arm grow heavy, and he swallowed hard. It was a terrible, powerful temptation. Malken continued talking, his voice gentle, persuasive.
“What do you have left to live for, anyway? Your wife is dead—well, in a sense. Your son certainly is. Your friends have betrayed you. Sigfrid is dead. Your rank means nothing to your stupid, gullible child-ruler. You’re a hero who’s outlived his age, my friend. Come, come, Tristan, you’ve fought the good fight. No one could expect any more from you. I certainly don’t.”
Malken’s words hung in the air, teasing and terrifying. Tristan could not surrender. Neither could he win the fight. He stared at Malken with bloodshot eyes, stared silently at the thing he now understood was no monster come to possess him, but was merely a part of his own dark soul.
Who was real? Tristan or Malken? Who was the true entity of this shared soul?
The questions screamed without voices in his mind as, his left hand still clutching his sword, Tristan stepped forward.
Tristan adjusted his cape to protect himself from the steady, chilly drizzle. It was a futile gesture; the rain found the warm nape of his neck despite his best efforts.
The Vistana torchbearers were having a difficult time keeping the lights lit. He hesitantly offered his magical services; they were politely refused. At last, well past the time allotted for the ritual, the torches were lit and managed to stay lit, though they flickered eerily in the wet wind. In the center of the ring of people was a blazing bonfire. Unlike the lesser lights of the torches, it defied the pettiness of the drizzle and burned brightly.
He had been privy to many Vistana rituals in earlier times, when he was a trusted go-between. Now, he sensed the hostility toward him, but his place at this particular rite was unquestioned. He did not truly wish to be here, but felt he owed it to Madame Terza and the few gypsies who still deigned to talk with him. He needed to face his responsibility in front of them. So, when the blanket that bore Rozalia’s mangled corpse was slowly brought into the circle, Tristan straightened, ignoring the trickling raindrops, and held his head high. Soft murmurs reached his ears, but he kept his eyes fastened on the approaching mourners. He felt rather than saw the heads turn to stare at him, hungry for his reaction.
Terza led the procession, but there was a young girl, still a child, really, who walked in a place of high honor beside her. As the girl, Carmilla, turned to whisper something to Terza, the torchlight caught the sparkle of a necklace—a necklace of three gold stars. Tristan’s eyes widened slightly. The necklace had belonged to Madame Terza. That she had passed it on to the child indicated that the old gypsy woman knew her time in this land was short. Surprised, Tristan felt a pang of regret. He would miss her.
Terza nodded at her young charge. Carmilla licked her lips hesitantly, then threw back her dark head and raised her hands to the sky. She began to sing in a clear, strong voice, and Tristan felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle as the child raised power.
Rozalia’s body, still bloody and broken as it had been when Tristan had taken her life, was passed around the circle. Tristan had half thought the Vistani might accept Rozalia in death as they had not in life, but the fear and hatred on the faces was mute evidence that such a gesture would not be forthcoming. Each gypsy looked on the face of the corpse, then turned his back. When the six men carrying the corpse reached Tristan, they halted, and the singing stopped.
“Tristan Hiregaard, are you the one who took the life of the Unnamed One?” asked Carmilla steadily.
“I am,” he responded in the Vistana tongue.
“Then you are the one who must appease her soul. Will you give her back her name, that she may not follow us in spirit, filled with hatred for our kind?”
“I will.” Stepping forward, he laid his hands on her crushed chest. The blood was caked and rough. “Trouble not those who named you darkling, Rozalia, daughter of Konstantin of the Twin Waters tribe.”
Slowly, the mourners moved away. The circle parted for them. They would take what remained of Rozalia a suitable distance away from the encampment and then bury her. The ritual performed, the soul was appeased. Rozalia’s ghost would not haunt the plains as some said those of other darklings did.
The ceremony was over. “She will not trouble us again,” came Terza’s voice at Tristan’s ear. “Not in body, not in spirit. Her malice and evil are dead.”
Her one eye caught the flicker of the flames as she gazed up at him. Was it his imagination, or did she lean more heavily on her staff than in the past? “You have done your duty here. Go home, Tristan. Go home and ease your soul in whatever way you may find.”
Home, Tristan thought with bitter irony. Faerhaaven had long since ceased to be a home and become merely the place where he lived. “Grandmama—”
“Aye?”
He smiled a little, a ghost of the smile that had played about his face in earlier times. “The tea was excellent.”
“Ah.” Her own face crinkled into a smile. Without another word to the giorgio, she turned and shuffled back to the fire.
Tristan watched her go, then went to his horse. This steed, too, was gypsy-trained. Leeka Nahira was its name, meaning White Rose. There was indeed a large white spot on its black forehead, which resembled a white rose, and its disposition was sweet. But it was not Kal. His heart heavy, Tristan mounted Leeka and rode off slowly toward Faerhaaven. He had no fear of plains cats—Malken would never harm him, and the ride was silent. The open plains, flooded by moonlight, held no ghosts for him. Those waited at Faerhaaven.
It was nearly dawn when he arrived, bone tired and heartsick. He forced himself to make careful note of what had happened in the gypsy ritual. He paused, and determinedly wrote what was in his heart.
I have never felt so alone as I did tonight. The Vistani have one another; I have no one. Malken was right. My family and friends are gone, some by my own hand. True, my plan to destroy the cult of Sehkmaa succeeded. Othmar has outlawed any practice of the faith and ordered all priests executed. They will not be hard to find, marked by the cats as they are. Malken, for all his gloating, has suffered a severe setback. It will take him years to recover.
I will put the time to good use. For although I am sure some of what he says is the truth, much of what he told me must be lies. Evil is not purely honest. That the land has changed, I believe. I must discover how it has changed, and why—and with this knowledge may come the information I need to finally lay that evil being to rest. I do not believe him when he says should he be destroyed, I will fill the evil void he has left behind. I cannot—or I should go mad.
My only comfort, my one reason for continuing this wretched existence, is the thought that I may be able to do some limited amount of good. What he does in the dark of night, skulking in the shadows, I may be able to undo by day in the all-cleansing sunlight. As long as I am my own man, I can fight him.
Yet—I seem to be my own man less and less. Will he, one day, simply outlast me and take over—as he put it, merge? No! I must not let myself despair! I must …
Tristan’s hand trembled. As he watched, helpless and horrified, he transferred the pen from his left hand to his right. His fingers, strong and callused, twisted into sharp-nailed, hairy claws. The right hand wrote in bold, scrawling letters:
COME ON, TRISTAN ME LAD, ITS TYME TO PLAY!
Christie Golden is a University of Virginia graduate and has studied at England’s Cambridge University. She is known as Lady Ealasaid in the Society for Creative Anachronism. Married, she lives with her husband and their four demanding cats. She has published previously in USA Today and Orbit Video, and contributed a short story, “One Last Drink,” to TSR’s anthology Realms of Valor. Both of her prior RAVENLOFT® novels, Vampire of the Mists and Dance of the Dead, were national bookstore best-sellers.
CONTINUE YOUR
ADVENTURE
The Dungeons & Dragons® Fantasy Roleplaying Game Starter Set has everything you need for you and your friends to start playing. Explore infinite universes, create bold heroes and prepare to begin—or rediscover—the game that started it all.
Watch Videos
Read Sample Chapters
Get product previews
Learn more about D&D® products
at
DungeonsandDragons.com
The Enemy Within Page 29
