AS TRISTAN RODE ALONGSIDE XANTHUS, PANIC GRIPPEDhim. He could sense the Darkling, but all he could see was a muddled form, matching his forward momentum. He also sensed his horse and saddle moving under him and the reins in his hands, but there was no sound. Even their horses’ hooves were silent. The azure air was thick and heavy, like the densest cloud.
Tristan tried to speak to Xanthus. Smothered by the dense atmosphere, his words arrived only as whispers and went nowhere. Then he remembered Xanthus’ warning.
“Take care not to leave my side,”the Darkling had said.“Alone, death is inevitable.”
Trying to regain his composure, Tristan did his best to keep Shadow near the Darkling and his mount. But because the azure depths were limitless, he couldn’t gauge how far they had traveled, or how long they had been here. After a time an unseen force snatched up his reins. Shadow came to a stop. Tristan tried to call out again, but the result was the same. He peered forward into the gloom.
A golden pinprick appeared up ahead. Growing in size, it formed a pinwheel that started revolving. The sensation was dizzying. Soon it encompassed the entire area before them. With a roaring sound it suddenly imploded, taking the azure fog with it. As Tristan gazed into the distance, his jaw fell.
The forbidding landscape was something straight from a nightmare. The lifeless ground was rust-red, as was the angry sky. Lightning continually streaked across the heavens, its accompanying thunder so loud that he thought his eardrums might burst.
Grotesque mountains loomed all around. Steaming geysers sprayed boiling water high into the sky. The ground rumbled and shook, hurling rocks down the craggy mountainsides. There were no trees, no foliage, and no creatures-just barren desert wasteland that stretched into infinity. Red dirt maelstroms whirled angrily, burning Tristan’s skin like red-hot needles.
Tristan heard another strange sound, then gasped as a gigantic sinkhole developed, its closest edge not ten meters away. The gaping hole quickly widened, pulling nearby rocks and soil into oblivion. Then the roaring heat hit him fully.
This bizarre world was a living blast furnace, its fiery atmosphere so intense that sweat started pouring from Tristan’s skin. Soon his clothing was soaked, and his dark hair lay matted against his head. Even though Shadow was at rest, the horse’s chest and neck were already lathering. Xanthus turned to look at Tristan. For some reason, the Darkling had taken on his human form.
Tristan was about to speak when a lightning bolt struck a nearby peak, exploding it into rubble. Shadow suddenly reared, nearly throwing Tristan to the ground. Then the stallion started dancing wildly, disobeying Tristan’s every command. Soon Xanthus’ mount became equally frenzied.
The Darkling jumped from his horse. Removing two blankets from his saddlebags, he tied one over Shadow’s eyes, then did the same for his mount. The horses started to calm. Xanthus urgently beckoned Tristan to dismount. When the prince’s boot soles hit the ground, the heat seeping through them nearly caused him to faint.
Tristan glared hatefully at the Darkling. He was now certain that this entire journey had been a ruse, designed to draw him into a horrible death. But when he saw Xanthus’ worried expression, he realized that something had gone horribly wrong.
“Where are we?” Tristan shouted. He could barely hear his own voice above the raging elements. “This place can’t be what you promised!”
Struggling against the wind, Xanthus placed his lips against Tristan’s ear. “It’s not!” he shouted back. “The Heretics have activated the Borderlands! Their struggle against the Ones must have escalated! Magic has no use here!”
Just then the wind howled and another dust storm arose, sending more whirling soil toward them. Raising their arms, they tried to shield their eyes. After what seemed like an eternity the maelstrom passed. Xanthus pointed to a mountain range lying against the horizon.
“There is where we need to go!” he shouted.
Narrowing his eyes, Tristan looked into the distance. His heart fell. Leagues of deadly wasteland loomed in between. They would never get across it alive. Then he turned to look behind him. To his horror, all he saw was more endless, heat-baked desolation.
“Can we go back?” he shouted.
“No!” Xanthus answered. “To survive, we have to go forward! You must trust me!”
“I don’t understand!” Tristan shouted back. “What are the Borderlands?”
Ignoring the question, Xanthus grabbed the horses’ reins then beckoned Tristan to follow him. Bent against the raging wind, they started for the horizon.
Never had the prince traveled across such deadly terrain. As they plodded desperately along, more sinkholes surfaced here and there, nearly sucking them into oblivion. With every step, sweat ran from their bodies, threatening death from dehydration. Wind and sand tore at Tristan’s skin like hot knife blades. The ground shook so violently that he went down twice, the scalding earth burning his palms as he fell. Each time he stood he had no choice but to somehow go on. Wherever Xanthus was taking him, he knew he would never live to see it.
After about an hour, Xanthus stopped. Nearly unconscious, Tristan staggered to his side. Xanthus pointed to a nearby slope.
“There!” he shouted. “Do you see it? That dark spot in the mountainside-I think it’s a cave!”
Tristan strained his eyes. After a few moments, he saw what Xanthus meant. But given all the swirling dust, Tristan couldn’t be sure. Only going there would tell the tale.
Without waiting for Tristan’s response, Xanthus started trudging toward their new destination. Summoning his remaining strength, the prince followed.
After another grueling walk they finally arrived. Looking up, Tristan nearly fell to his knees with relief. A huge cave entrance loomed before them, its edges smoothed by the constantly blowing sand. Wasting no time, they led their horses inside.
The cave’s interior was immense. Dark red stone lined the walls. As they walked deeper, Tristan and Xanthus turned a corner to see the tunnel’s end. The cave’s entrance was far too high to seal with rocks to block out the terrible sandstorm, but being around the bend gave them some relief from the elements. The wind moaned as it swirled its way into the cave’s depths, then back out again.
His throat parched and his skin burning, Tristan looked around. To his dismay there was nothing to be found. No food, no water-just bare stone and the constantly moaning wind. Reaching to his saddle he untied his canteen to take a welcome drink.
Almost as soon as he started drinking, the Darkling ripped the canteen from his hands. Surprised, he glared at Xanthus.
“What are you doing?” he growled. “I am near death with thirst!”
Xanthus looked back at him calmly. “I know,” he answered. “So is my human side. But there is a long way to go before we reach the mountains. Some food remains in my saddlebags, and we have a certain amount of water. Crossing the Borderlands is our only hope. To succeed, we must ration what we have left.” Xanthus thought for a moment. “Unless things change,” he added softly.
“What are you talking about?” Tristan demanded. “What in this awful place might possibly change?”
Ignoring the question, Xanthus closed Tristan’s canteen.
“I agree about the food!” Tristan shouted. “But you charmed the canteens to constantly replenish themselves! Why can’t we drink all we want?”
“I have already told you why,” Xanthus answered calmly. “Magic has no meaning here. My spell over the canteens no longer works.”
So tired he couldn’t stand, Tristan sat on the ground. He looked up at the Darkling with angry eyes. “What do you mean?” he demanded. “What in the name of the Afterlife are the Borderlands?”
Xanthus sat down across from the prince. As the wind moaned, the Darkling looked into Tristan’s eyes.
“There is so much that you do not know-thatno one on your side of the world knows,” he said. “You are right about one thing: This place is not our destination. Once we entered the azure wall, we should have arrived among the Heretics. When I saw that we were crossing through azure fog, I knew it had all gone wrong. Even so, there could be no turning back. I have done all I can to keep us alive, Jin’Sai, and I will continue to do so. Even though you believe I’m your enemy, you must trust me. I’m all you have.”
Suddenly an alarming thought struck Tristan. His eyes darted to the Paragon hanging around the Darkling’s neck. To his great relief, it looked as vibrant as ever.
“If magic has no meaning here, why is the Paragon still alive?” he asked.
Xanthus looked down at the stone. Cupping it lovingly in his hands for a moment, he looked back at the prince.
“All the craft’s spells are made useless here,” Xanthus answered. “The Borderlands purpose is to create a deadly environment, protecting the Heretics from the Ones during an intense attack. The environment is meant to be severely hostile-so hostile that if we survive it, we will be the first. It is also said that dangerous creatures-designed by the Heretics to withstand these elements continually wander the Borderlands, hunting for the Ones. But that is not to say that magic does notexist here, just because those who enter cannot call forth spells. The fact the Paragon still lives proves that.”
Tristan looked unbelievingly at Xanthus. “Do you mean to say that the Heretics are powerful enough to havecreated this place?”
“Yes,” Xanthus answered. “Their ability to conjure and dispel the Borderlands is aeons old. But in all that time, the Heretics have needed to summon its protection only twice before. We seem to be witnessing the third time. Summoning the Borderlands is a drastic measure. The Ones must be making a particularly savage attack. Had I known that the Borderlands had been summoned, we would have waited longer in your world. Unless the Borderlands are dispelled soon, our chances of surviving are not good.”
“If the Borderlands protect the Heretics from the Ones, then why don’t the Heretics summon it constantly?” Tristan asked.
“Although their gifts dwarf anything seen on your side of the world, even they are not all-powerful,” Xanthus replied. “The energy needed to sustain the Borderlands is beyond our imagination. Even the Heretics cannot summon it indefinitely. But the last two times they called it forth, it served its purpose admirably.”
Tristan scowled. “What do you mean?”
“The Heretics survived,” Xanthus said. “When the Ones’ armies tried to advance, they were annihilated by the elements.”
“Are you telling me that right now-out there, somewhere-an army of the Ones is advancing on the Heretics?” Tristan asked.
Xanthus nodded. “There can be no other reason, save for one.”
“What might that be?” Tristan asked.
Again refusing to answer, Xanthus shook his head. Even so, Tristan was starting to understand-if only a little.
“When the Ones draw near, the Heretics summon the Borderlands,” Tristan mused. “Suddenly engulfed, the Ones are without their magic, and they perish from the elements.” He looked curiously at the Darkling. “If that is always the case, why do they continue to try?”
Xanthus shook his head. “You speak about such things like they were an everyday occurrence,” he said. “Remember, over tens of thousands of years, until now the Borderlands have been conjured only twice. Perhaps the Ones have discovered what they believe is a way to overcome the Borderlands. In any event, the timing bodes badly for us. It seems that we have arrived during another great campaign.”
“A place where magic exists, but its use is impossible,” Tristan said to himself. Suddenly understanding something else, he looked into Xanthus’ human face.
“That is why your human half shows, isn’t it?” he asked. “Here in the Borderlands, you can’t sustain your Darkling persona.” Tristan gave the Darkling a deadly looking smile. “If I chose to, I could kill you right now.”
“Yes, you could,” Xanthus answered calmly. “But you won’t, and we know why.”
Just then the wind picked up. Howling loudly, it sent more red dust into the cave, reminding them of what waited outside.
“Do the dust storms ever abate?” Tristan asked. “If so we would stand a far better chance.”
“I do not know,” Xanthus answered. “Like you, this is my first experience here.”
Thinking for a moment, Tristan became curious about something. “If no army of the Ones has ever successfully crossed the Borderlands, then how can we?” he asked. “Surely they would come far better prepared.”
“True,” Xanthus answered. “But we have an unexpected advantage that they never enjoyed.”
“What is that?”
“Remember what I said about our being propelled vast distances in the space of a single heartbeat?” Xanthus asked. “We moved through the azure fog for some time-too long, in fact. The Heretics granted me a unique Forestallment. It is designed to take me through the pass to the Eutracian side and also bring us back to them again-each action occurring in the twinkle of an eye. Instead, the azure fog imploded and we ended up here. I believe that was attributable to the Borderlands being summoned simultaneously to our journey. In effect, it blocked our way. We traveled an amazing distance-but not far enough. Through a quirk of fate, I believe that when we exited the fog we were already far across the Borderlands. If that is true, we may have already come much farther than the Ones’ armies ever have.”
“What caused us to exit the fog when we did?” Tristan asked.
“As the Borderlands formed, magic became increasingly ineffective. When the craft ceased to matter, my powers became inert. The result was that we had no more momentum. The azure fog imploded, leaving us somewhere in the Borderlands and short of our true destination.”
Disheartened, Tristan looked at the ground. Even during his darkest days fighting the Coven he had never felt so defeated. He was stranded in a nightmarish wasteland with a Heretical servant who possessed the Paragon. Worse, things would be building to a climax in Eutracia. He hoped that Shailiha had set sail for the Citadel by now. Whatevernow meant in this place, for it was clear that nothing could be taken for granted here in this monstrous construct. He looked back at the Darkling.
“Is time the same here?” he asked. “Is a day still a day, a year still a year?”
“I do not know,” Xanthus answered. “It is said that there is no day or night in the Borderlands. The Heretics designed it that way, to confuse and tire the enemy. If that is true then time cannot be measured, and has no meaning.”
Xanthus handed the canteen to the prince. “Take a small sip,” he said. “I will do the same.” Despite their grave circumstances, the Darkling managed a slight smile. “In this place where I cannot call on magic, we are finally on equal terms.”
Opening the canteen, Tristan drank. The life-giving water momentarily soothed his parched throat. He handed the canteen back to the Darkling so that Xanthus could do the same.
“We should sleep before journeying onward,” Xanthus said. “Then we will see.”
Tristan was forced to agree. Removing his weapons, he lay them on the ground within easy reach. He stretched out on the cave floor. Closing his eyes, he did his best to relax. Even so, because of the howling wind and the many questions worrying his mind, sleep was a long time in coming.
Once Tristan slumbered, Xanthus walked around the bend and stared out the cave entrance. To his dismay everything about the raging Borderlands was the same. Sighing, he looked to the ground.
My masters did not foresee this, he thought. Why would they, when the last Borderlands appearance was more than two thousand centuries ago? But now, all might be lost because of one unforeseen coincidence in time. I must get the Jin’Saito safety! The craft’s future depends on it! But if the Ones are on the march, it could change everything.
Xanthus turned away from the Borderlands and walked back into the cave.