“AWAKEN, JIN’SAI,” SAID A HOLLOW VOICE. “IT IS TIMEto greet the dawn.”
Tristan stirred, then sat up. At first he didn’t recognize his surroundings. Then he saw the familiar campfire burning in the cold morning air, and he knew. He instinctively checked his weapons to find that they remained in place over his right shoulder.
Looking farther, he saw the sun breaking over the eastern horizon. The Sippora still refused to flow, the birds did not sing, and the wind remained still. Shadow and another mount stood a short distance away, still tied to the night line.
His back to the prince, Xanthus sat in the early-morning light. His weapons lay beside him. As Xanthus turned, Tristan braced himself to confront the Darkling’s hideous face.
Although he wore Xanthus’ clothes, the being before Tristan was human. The unremarkable face regarded him calmly. Waving one hand, the stranger called the craft, and breakfast materialized. It landed softly atop a blanket that had been stretched out beside the fire.
Tristan looked down to see plates of quail’s eggs, ham, and sliced brown bread. A churn of yellow butter sat nearby, as did a pot of hot tea and two teacups. Tristan looked back into the unfamiliar face.
“Xanthus?” he asked softly. The man nodded.
“In human form,” Tristan mused.
“Yes.”
Xanthus lowered the hood of his robe to fully show his face. He then took an egg and struck it against a plate. After peeling it, he started eating. Tristan watched the silver pot rise into the air to pour two cups of steaming tea. As Xanthus sipped his tea, Tristan regarded him narrowly.
Save for his hands and face, the Darkling looked as he did before. He wore the same black robe, duster, trousers, and boots. The Paragon still hung around his neck. Tristan was relieved to see that the stone’s color remained vibrant, showing it had accepted Xanthus’ human side as its new host.
The prince looked closer at the Darkling’s face. Had Tristan met this fellow anywhere else, he would have scarcely noticed him. The visage implied strength, but was also sensual-looking. Brown, almost black eyes rested above a straight nose. The mouth was wide and the lips full. The chin showed a deep cleft, and his rather wavy hair was brown. Had he not been some abomination of the craft, he might be anyone.
Tristan looked skeptically at the food, then back at Xanthus. The Darkling smiled.
“We might be together for some time, Jin’Sai, ” he said. “You must learn to trust me.”
Deciding he had no choice, Tristan took a sip of the excellent tea, then filled a plate with food. After dipping a bread slice into the butter, he ate hungrily. He soon felt the forgotten ball mask rubbing against his skin. Reaching beneath his vest, he removed it. Xanthus eyed it knowingly.
“Before this day passes, you will come to hate me even more,” he said. “But less, I suspect, than you will hate me tomorrow.”
Putting down his plate, Tristan regarded the mask, then turned his eyes back toward the Darkling. He had never visited Everhaven, but he already mourned its citizens’ fates.
“Must it be this way?” he asked angrily. “Is there nothing I can do-short of going through the azure pass-that will dissuade you from this madness?”
“No,” Xanthus answered. “I have given you all the needed explanations. It is time to decide.”
Tristan looked at the mask. “I know why you gave this to me,” he said. “You wish me to remain anonymous as I watch the atrocities. What I do not know is why.”
“The answer is simple,” Xanthus said. “If and when you return from the other side, the Heretics want no animosity existing between the populace and their prince. Only recently have your fellow Eutracians come to again accept you as their legitimate regent. Should they recognize you while I go about my work, your family house would carry the stain for all time. Such an unfortunate occurrence would prove problematic.”
“Why do the Heretics care about such things?”
“All in good time, Jin’Sai, ” Xanthus answered.
“You just said, ‘if and whenyou return from the other side,’” Tristan mused. “Assuming that I follow you into the pass, won’t you be returning with me?”
“No,” Xanthus answered. “Once I take you to the other side, my work is done.”
“What will happen to you?” Tristan asked.
“My existence’s sole purpose is to bring you to the Heretics,” Xanthus said. “After that, I do not know what will happen to me. I will be rewarded in some way, I suppose.”
Tristan looked thoughtfully into Xanthus’ human face. He couldn’t help but notice that in this form, the Darkling seemed less evil, less remote. If there was any chance that Xanthus might be dissuaded from his mission, it would be now.
But which side controls the other?
Waving an arm, Xanthus caused the breakfast things to vanish. Then the fire went out. The tack lying nearby rose skyward and secured itself onto the horses. Xanthus’ axe and shield rose to meet his saddle.
“It is time to go,” Xanthus said. “What is it to be, Jin’Sai? Shall I take us to the azure pass in a single heartbeat? Or do we go to Everhaven?”
Heartsick with worry, Tristan looked around. As far as he could see, the Farplains fields lay barren. He couldn’t kill Xanthus, nor could he escape him. His only two choices were to give himself over to the Heretics here and now, or to helplessly stand by while the Darkling tormented the Everhavians. He looked beseechingly into the strangely human face.
“Don’t do this!” he said softly. “I beg you!”
“The time for begging is over,” Xanthus answered. “Choose.”
His heart breaking, Tristan closed his eyes. “No,” he answered. “Not now, not ever.”
Xanthus sighed. “Very well,” he said. “But one day youwill follow me through the pass. Your love for humanity will demand it.”
Reaching back, Xanthus pulled his robe hood up over his head. Tristan watched the craft’s aura form around the Darkling. Soon Xanthus’ face and hands melted away, to be replaced by his hideous spirit form. The awful eyes in the hood’s recesses stared menacingly at the prince. The combination of the glowing orbs and what was about to happen in Everhaven made Tristan’s skin crawl. The evil had returned.
“Mount your horse,” the Darkling said. “Take care not to lose your mask.”
The two riders climbed aboard their mounts. As the reins untied themselves from the tether line, the line disappeared. Saying nothing more, Xanthus started riding north. His heart heavy, the prince had no choice but to follow.
As the riders left the forlorn campsite, the Sippora started running again, the birds sang, and the wind was reborn.
AS THE VICTIM SCREAMED, TRISTAN TRIED TO TURN HIS FACEaway, but could not. Aside from blinking, he could not otherwise close his eyes. From behind the black mask, tears ran freely down his cheeks. What madness…and I am partly to blame!
From the start of the horrific spectacle, Xanthus had used the craft to take away Tristan’s ability to speak, and to move his body. The prince could move his head, but only to suggest yes or no. Before incapacitating him, Xanthus had ordered Tristan to sit in a simple wooden chair, from which he could clearly view the Darkling’s grotesque handiwork.
The grisly scene had been going on for hours, and the eager Darkling showed no signs of stopping. The naked man being tortured to death was today’s fourth such victim. No one needed to tell Tristan that the poor fellow would soon join the first three already in the Afterlife. But that mattered little to Xanthus. The room was filled with people from whom to choose.
On reaching Everhaven, Xanthus had acted quickly. Calling the craft, he invoked a spell summoning every man, woman, and child to the town square. Tristan had been amazed by the enchantment’s powerful grasp.
Spellbound, the unseeing citizens had all trudged to the same spot. Xanthus had then ordered as many as possible to enter the community hall. Those remaining outside simply stood waiting in the sun with vacuous looks on their faces. Tristan and Xanthus entered last.
The hall was a simple structure and was built of fieldstone, mortar, and wood. It was there that the town fathers called the people together to decide important issues, and to share the kingdom’s news. Large candelabras hung from the rough-hewn rafters. Wooden pews sat in neat rows, and their lengths were filled with entranced spectators. Stained-glass windows lined the walls, and a dais sat at the room’s far end. Standing on the dais and alongside Tristan’s chair, Xanthus went about his grisly work.
Waving a skeletal hand, Xanthus inflicted another round of torture. A terrible banging sound came, followed by a scream that filled the air, then faded into nothingness. Sobbing followed. Tristan watched as yet more blood dripped lazily to the floor. Seemingly unfazed, the spellbound citizens sat quietly in their pews as they watched.
Conjured by Xanthus, a massive wooden altar lay on the dais. It was rectangular in shape and measured about one meter high. The dried blood of past victims lay splattered across its sides and top. Sturdy ropes bound the victim’s head, torso, and legs to the altar top.
Wooden planks lay along the man’s sides, stretching from his hips to his feet. Ropes bound the boards tight against the man’s legs, pushing them together. A wooden wedge had been driven between the victim’s knees. A bloody wooden mallet, its business end wound with harsh rope, hovered in the air. Nearby lay a wide-mouthed bucket filled with common salt.
Tristan could only watch as Xanthus caused the bloody mallet head to again grind itself into the salt, then hauntingly rise to a place high above the victim. Saying nothing, Xanthus paused in his work to look at the prince. His mind nearly mad with guilt, Tristan thought for a moment, then sadly shook his head.
With another wave, Xanthus caused the mallet to come down with amazing force.
The mallet drove the wedge deeper into the shrinking space between the man’s knees, squeezing his limbs against the planks and crushing the flesh and bone. The mallet’s salt sank into the fresh wounds.
The man screamed insanely. His eyes bulged from their sockets, and his neck cords strained so tightly that they looked like they might snap apart. After the screaming stopped, the sobbing began again.
Xanthus caused the bloody mallet to again dip into the salt bucket, then resume its place high above the altar. He looked at Tristan. So that the crowd could not hear what he had to say, he silently revealed his thoughts to Tristan’s mind.
“What is it to be, Jin’Sai?” Tristan heard the Darkling’s voice say.“How many more must die because of your childish stubbornness? Follow me into the azure pass, and this will stop. Follow me, and the many answers you seek will be yours.”
Tristan again looked at the suffering man atop the altar. Who is he? he wondered. And who am I, to have the power of life and death over others?
“You are theJin’Sai,” Xanthus answered.“Like every Jin’Saibefore you, you have been born into the dark worlds of magic, manifest destiny, and pain. You are still unable to control your magic or your destiny. But you can control this man’s pain. Say yes, Jin’Sai, and save him.”
Tristan sobbed openly. He was close to believing that the fault was his, and that had he found a way to murder this abomination of the craft, this would not be happening.
“Yes,”Xanthus whispered silently.“This is indeed your fault. But there is time to rectify your sins. Come with me and I will heal this man, making him as he was before. Resist me, and he will die a horrible death.”
Tristan gazed at the desperate victim’s face. The man would never know who Tristan was, or that it had been he who had signed his death warrant. Finally deciding, Tristan looked directly into Xanthus’ glowing eyes and shook his head.
Tristan watched in horror as the mallet again came down to squarely strike the wedge. More bone cracked, more blood spurted forth, and more screaming filled the air. This time the damage was so severe that yellow bone marrow oozed from between the boards and the altar top and went slipping down the altar’s sides. The last blow rendered the man’s knee joints little more than useless sacks of crushed meat, marrow, and bone. This time the trauma proved too much. As his head slumped to one side the man gasped his last and died.
Xanthus looked at the prince. “Four is enough for one day,” he said. “I will grant you a different entertainment tomorrow. Perhaps it will make you more agreeable.”
Ignoring the corpse, Xanthus came to stand in the dais’s center. Soon the craft’s azure glow surrounded him. Tristan watched the Darkling reach into one duster pocket and produce something. After removing his duster and his robe, Xanthus dropped them to the floor. In his human form, the Darkling slowly turned to face Tristan.
For the briefest moment, Xanthus seemed to regard the prince with sadness. Then his expression hardened. He turned away.
Naked from the waist up, the Darkling’s human muscles glistened in the candlelight. In one hand he held a black knotted cord. After taking several steps across the dais, he faced northwest and sat on his knees. For several long moments the Darkling bowed his head.
His self-inflicted penitence started slowly. Lashing his naked back, Xanthus opened up wound after gaping wound. As the blows quickened, his blood started flowing down his back and onto the floor, mingling with that of his victims.
As the lashings continued, Tristan suddenly found that he could close his eyes. That must have been Xanthus’ doing, but he was at a complete loss about why.
If I can shut this out, I will, he thought, as more tears streaked down beneath his hated mask. Since the Coven’s return, I have witnessed the horrors of a thousand lifetimes. I needn’t watch this.
As the knotted line continued to split Xanthus’ skin, the enchanted townspeople watched blankly. Tristan of the House of Galland shut his bleary eyes.