AS TRISTAN WALKED DOWN THE PALACE HALLS, IT SEEMEDthat the entire castle had come alive. It felt good to him to see the place bustling again, even if he did have to attend tonight’s masquerade ball.
When his mother, father, and the wizards of the Directorate had lived, the palace always seemed to be in a state of activity. With the arrival of peace, it was starting to become that way again, and tonight’s impending ball was adding much to the general excitement. Servants, cooks, musicians, acrobats, jugglers, and others responsible for preparing the evening’s festivities filled the halls. As expected, many seemed obliged to stop and speak with him.
Wending his way through the hubbub, Tristan tried to acknowledge as many people as he could, but he was already late. He smirked as he imagined the scowl he would get from Wigg-not to mention the mischievous looks Tyranny, Shailiha, and Faegan would contribute when he finally reached the Great Hall.
Tristan flagged down a waiter carrying a tray laden with wine. With a bow the waiter held it out to him. Tristan took a glass and quickly downed the contents, then grabbed another. If he had to attend this event, his unfair share from the palace wine cellars would help ease the boredom. After giving the waiter a smile, he continued on.
The newly rebuilt palace was a revelation. During the Coven of Sorceresses’ unexpected return and the subsequent struggles with Nicholas and Wulfgar, much of the structure had been destroyed. But the combined efforts of countless Minion and citizen laborers had brought the castle to an even greater magnificence.
All seven hundred rooms had been repaired and redecorated as needed. It seemed that everywhere Tristan looked he saw new furniture, artwork, rugs, and tapestries. He sighed as he wished that his parents could be here to see it all. Then he again noticed the servants’ black-and-white formal attire, and he smirked.
Despite Shailiha’s earlier coaxing, he had adamantly refused to change clothes. Even his weapons still hung over his right shoulder. If he must be put on display tonight, then he would do it on his own terms, no matter what anybody said about it. Just then, Wigg crossed his mind. The First Wizard always placed great importance on such public affairs. He was bound to be incensed when he saw that Tristan hadn’t trussed himself up in some ridiculous costume to match the occasion.
But Tristan decided he couldn’t be angry with him. Wigg was more than three hundred years old. He had been the royal advisor and leader of the Directorate during the reigns of nearly a dozen Eutracian kings and queens, including Tristan’s mother and father. Such traditions were an established way of life for the wizard. But Tristan still rejected them as boring and tedious.
As he neared the Great Hall he started to see guests. Each of their costumes seemed more sumptuous than the last. Even the Minions were in disguise-a rather incongruous notion, because it was impossible to hide their dark wings. It gladdened his heart to see Eutracians and Minions mixing so well. Less than two years ago, this gathering would have been impossible.
At first he was surprised to find the Minion women so stunning. Their body armor gone, they were dressed in human, female attire. Despite the obvious alterations for their wings, they wore the garments well. He smiled to himself as he wondered how Ox, Traax, and Duvessa would be dressed.
As he made his way through the crowd, he realized that wearing no mask put him at a disadvantage. As expected, guests began recognizing him. Disguised as they were, it was difficult to know how to respond to their greetings. After an older man lowered his mask to show Tristan that he was in fact Tammerland’s mayor, the rather embarrassed prince decided it was time to even the odds.
Ducking into a room off the hallway, he closed the door. He put down his wineglass, then reached beneath his vest to produce his only concession to the masquerade-a simple black mask that covered the upper half of his face. He quickly tied its string around the back of his head. Picking up his glass, he walked to a mirror hanging on the opposite wall.
The image staring back at him looked far more like some menacing highwayman than it did a member of the royal house. Then his memories crept in again, and he looked to the floor. Closing his eyes, he rolled the half-empty wineglass back and forth between his palms, thinking.
If only Celeste was here. How ravishing she would look! If she was on my arm, I wouldn’t care how long the ball lasted. Doing his best to shelve his sadness, he squared his shoulders, then reentered the busy hallway.
The crushing flow of people and warriors had become even stronger, but at least this time nearly everyone was going in the same direction. The ball would start soon, and the Great Hall would be packed with revelers. With his mask on, fewer people recognized him. But he would still be late. As he wended his way through the crowd, his thoughts turned to earlier that day.
When today’s second Conclave meeting had adjourned, he had stayed behind for a time, thinking. Although the members had been able to talk freely, no one had been able to offer an explanation about Xanthus. Even Wigg, Faegan, and Jessamay were at a loss. Glad to finally be alone, Tristan had gazed into the fireplace and come to some conclusions of his own.
The deaths in Charningham had been horrific and unprovoked. Clearly, Xanthus needed to be stopped and his motives brought to light. But how did one do that when the quarry was a ghost, able to vanish at will? Then there was the disturbing matter of the freshly cut branch and the blank scroll. Their meanings clear, the two symbols sat quietly atop the meeting room table.
He soon found his mind returning to that awful day in Parthalon, when he had killed Kluge and become the lord of the Minions. Kluge had been the strongest opponent he had ever met. Tristan had barely escaped with his life.
But where Kluge’s technique had been that of a raging beast, Xanthus’ would not be. When his axe was in his hands, Xanthus would become the consummate warrior-a veritable magician of the combative arts. Kluge had reveled in his kills. But Xanthus’ attainment ofK’Shari would keep his heart and mind placid, unfeeling, and perfect in his deadliness. In the end, Xanthus would be far more dangerous.
Tristan turned to see his dreggan and throwing knives hanging over his chair back. The weapons gleamed beautifully in the firelight. Then he looked into the fire again.
I cannot beat this creature, this Darkling, he realized. If he comes for me and I resist him, I will die.
Even so, one thing had become abundantly clear. Xanthus was of the Vagaries. The dark side of the craft was again on the march in Eutracia, and it had to be stopped.
The sound of music returned Tristan’s mind to the present as he finally neared the Great Hall. Knowing better than to try to go through the giant doors and fight his way across the room, he opened a nearby alcove door and quickly closed it behind him.
He was soon standing in a well-lit antechamber just off the hall’s dais. With luck, he might be able to slip into his chair without too many guests noticing that he was late. Walking across the chamber, he opened the door and stepped onto the dais.
Other than on the day of his ill-fated coronation, Tristan had never seen the Great Hall decorated so beautifully. The room was covered by a domed ceiling of stained glass through which light cascaded in a dizzying array of colors. The floor was a vast sea of black-and-white checkerboard marble squares. Giant variegated columns, so thick around that it would take ten men holding hands to surround just one, flanked the entire length of two opposing walls from ceiling to floor. Thick garlands of purple ginger lily were wound around each one, and strung from one to the next. Scores of golden chandeliers and standing candelabras provided light from their glowing flames. Several large indoor fountains playfully shot water streams into the air. The water tumbled back into surrounding pools holding fish of every color and description. A musicians’ pit near one end of the dais held twenty men and women. The musicians were busily playing melodies for the whirling dancers.
While hundreds of costumed revelers wheeled to the music, liveried waiters and waitresses mingled politely on the sidelines, offering up silver trays laden with food and drink. Against the room’s walls sat many buffet tables that were loaded with yet more delicacies.
Shaking his head, Tristan snorted. Each table had to be twenty meters long. The moment a platter became empty, palace cooks or gnome wives quickly bustled in, carrying ever-more-sumptuous treats.
Meant only for the Conclave members, ten high-backed chairs sat atop the dais. A line of citizens and warriors eager to greet the Conclave stretched from the room’s far reaches, all the way forward along one wall, then up and across the dais. As the people and the warriors approached, another liveried servant accepted their engraved invitations, then loudly announced their names. As he took in the line’s length, Tristan groaned. Then he smiled behind his mask as he heard the servant struggle, trying to correctly pronounce one of the Minion warriors’ more exotic names.
Four Conclave members’ chairs were conspicuously empty-those that had once belonged to Geldon and Celeste, plus Tyranny’s and his own. Tyranny must also be late, he assumed. Although Geldon and Celeste could not be present, Tristan had insisted that their chairs be included as a sign of their sacrifices to the Vigors. He walked across the dais, to sit down between Wigg and Shailiha.
Like Tristan, it seemed that Wigg had granted no concession to the masquerade besides his highly ornate mask. How much teasing had the First Wizard been forced to endure from Abbey before finally donning it? Tristan wondered. For a moment he considered whether it was real or conjured, then decided that it didn’t matter. It was beautifully made of crinkled gold foil, with black, sweeping eyebrows that gave it a rather disparaging expression. How appropriate, Tristan thought with a smile.
Wigg looked at him and said nothing. He didn’t have to-Tristan knew full well that the expression on the wizard’s face and mask would match perfectly.
Shailiha was stunning. She was dressed in a dark blue gown, and her long blond hair graced either shoulder. Her matching blue shoes were decorated with indigo sapphires. Her gold medallion exactly matching his hung brightly around her neck. One edge of her mask was attached to a handle. The full mask was bloodred, adorned with white feathers where the eyebrows would normally be. The eye holes slanted up at the far corners, giving it a seductive quality. Tristan smiled at her from behind his mask; she smiled back.
“You’re late!” she whispered. “In the name of the Afterlife, can’t you ever be on time? Wigg must be furious!”
“Naturally,” Tristan answered back. “That’s his job.”
He gladly drank in his twin sister’s beauty once more. She would have no lack of suitors tonight, and for that he was glad. She had been lonely since Frederick’s death, and enough time had gone by. Tristan knew that no one would deny her the right to be happy again.
Holding the mask before her face, Shailiha smiled as a man approached from the receiving line. As the man lowered his mask, the princess immediately remembered the handsome fellow as Count Tomasso, from the province of Ephyra.
When the count bowed, his blue eyes flashed in the candlelight. As Shailiha extended her hand, he lightly brushed his lips across the back of her satin elbow glove.
“Good evening, Your Highness,” he said smoothly. Then he turned to Tristan. “My liege,” he said.
“Count Tomasso,” Tristan acknowledged simply. The count again focused his eyes on Shailiha.
“I trust your dance card is not yet filled?” he asked. “It would be such a shame to come so far, only to be denied.”
Shailiha knew she could afford a revealing smile, as long as it was safely hidden behind her mask. Reaching to the floor, she retrieved her dance card and a quill. She handed them to the count.
“I believe there might be one or two left,” she answered, trying her best to sound nonchalant. “You’ll have to see for yourself.”
The count glanced at the card. “One only,” he answered happily. “The last one, as it happens. I will be looking forward to it.” After writing his name on the card, he handed it back to the princess.
“Until then,” he said.
Working his way down the receiving line, he stopped to politely recognize the other Conclave members. Snorting out another soft laugh, Tristan looked over at his sister.
“You’ll have to see for yourself?”he chided her. “With such a wonderful come-hither attitude as that, I’m surprised there’s a man in the entire place who wants to dance with you!”
Shailiha smiled from behind her mask, then promptly shoved one elbow into the prince’s ribs. He winced.
“I must be doing something right,” she teased right back. “My dance card is full, but yours is empty. Doesn’t that tell you anything?”
“It tells me that things are just as I want them,” he answered. There had come a welcome lull in the receiving line. Taking another sip of wine, he cast his dark eyes back toward the spectacular scene.
“By the way,” he asked, “where’s Tyranny? It’s not like her to be late.”
Shailiha pointed toward the twirling dancers. “She’s down there, somewhere,” she answered, “and whirling madly, no doubt. It seems she has been popular tonight. I didn’t even know she could dance.”
Tristan raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?” he asked softly. “I didn’t know she could, either.”
Curious, Tristan searched for her. But amid the disguised revelers, finding her was impossible, so he stopped trying. Then he noticed several fliers of the fields-the giant, endowed Eutracian butterflies-soaring high above the crowd. He was delighted to see them.
“Wigg let you bring the fliers here?” he asked Shailiha. “That surprises me.”
Lowering her mask, she gave her brother a conspiratorial wink. “I believed they would make a nice addition to the ball,” she said. “So I brokered a deal with him.”
Tristan scowled. “Just how did you manage that?” he asked. “Wigg isn’t one to make deals.”
“Abbey was hounding him mercilessly about wearing a full costume,” she answered. “I suggested that in return for allowing the fliers to attend, he could wear only his usual gray robe, plus a mask. It worked.”
Smiling, Tristan looked back up at the bevy of huge colorful butterflies. Each one’s body as long as a man’s forearm, they swooped and darted effortlessly. Knowing that Shailiha could silently communicate with them, he looked over at her.
“Call Caprice down,” he said. “It has been some time since I’ve seen her.”
Closing her eyes, Shailiha used her only active Forestallment to call down her personal flier. At once a violet-and-yellow one left the others to soar toward the Conclave. When Tristan realized that she was coming toward him, he raised a forearm. Caprice landed on his arm, then gently folded her diaphanous wings.
Shailiha closed her eyes again, then smiled. “She says that she is happy to see you,” his sister told him.
Still amazed by his sister’s gift, Tristan smiled. “As am I to see her,” he said.
Gently shaking his arm, he cast Caprice back into the air. She soared to rejoin her kind. Just then Wigg leaned toward him.
“You’re late!” he whispered. “And you’re out of costume, to boot!”
Sighing, Tristan took another sip of wine. Stretching his long legs, he casually crossed one boot over the other.
“So I’ve already been told,” he answered. “Anyway, I’m here now. And by the way, I don’t think much of your costume, either.” He gave Wigg a short, knowing smile. “Abbey can’t be very happy with you,” he added.
“That doesn’t matter!” the wizard pressed. “You could learn a great deal about royal decorum from your sister!”
Tristan could tell that Wigg was about to launch into a full-blown lecture when the music suddenly stopped. Wondering why, everyone looked to the orchestra pit.
The leader had come to the center of the dance floor. Wondering what was going on, the slowing dancers formed a circle around him. Once he had everyone’s attention, the orchestra leader cleared his voice.
“As everyone knows, it is an old Eutracian custom that one dance shall be in the form of an auction, the proceeds going to the Tammerland orphanage,” he announced. “But tonight we are going to do something a bit different. Rather than the gentlemen bidding on the ladies as partners, things will be reversed. Tonight the ladies will be bidding for the men!”
Spontaneous laughter and applause erupted. It was clear that the crowd was delighted. But Tristan’s reaction was another matter. He glared at his sister.
“This is your doing, isn’t it?” he asked sternly.
Trying to stifle her glee, Shailiha bit her lower lip. “I’ll never tell,” she whispered from behind her mask. Everyone’s eyes soon returned to the orchestra leader.
“So who among you lovely ladies would like to get things started?” he shouted. “Now then, don’t be shy! It’s all for a good cause, you know!”
“Ten kisa for the First Wizard!” one woman hollered. “I’ve always wanted to dance with a wizard! I hear they can be very light on their feet!”
As the crowd erupted into laughter, Tristan heard Wigg groan. The prince smiled evilly.
“Fifteen for Faegan!” another woman shouted. “With or without his chair!”
The crowd laughed good-naturedly. Curious, Tristan leaned forward to glance down the line of Conclave members. Unlike Wigg, the mischievous Faegan had lowered his mask and was grinning from ear to ear.
“Seventeen for Traax!” another called out. More congratulatory applause followed.
Urgently elbowing her husband out of the way, an especially rotund woman stepped forward. She lowered her mask to show a hooked nose and far too much rouge adorning her cheeks. With a coy look on her face, she stared straight at the prince. Fearing the worst, Tristan swallowed hard.
“Twenty for the prince!” the woman shouted. The crowd cheered.
Lowering her mask a bit, Shailiha leaned toward her brother. The catty expression on her face was plain to see.
“I’d be careful if I were you,” she whispered. “She must mean business-she just paid twenty kisa for you. Watch your feet. One wrong step and they might be crushed beyond recognition.”
Tristan scowled. “Twenty kisa, eh?” he mused. “I’d gladly pay one hundred not to have to go down there!”
Then another woman came forward. She was tall, and her red dress was stunning. Her handheld mask was white, with pink overtones. Wondering who she might be, Tristan leaned forward a bit. The unidentified woman looked over at the orchestra leader.
“One thousand kisa for the prince!” she shouted. “And don’t worry-I’m good for it!”
A hush came over the crowd as they all wondered who the rich mystery woman might be. Then they started applauding. Taking another step forward, the winning bidder lowered her mask. When Tristan saw her face, his eyes went wide. He sat back in his chair.
It was Tyranny.
Tristan looked over at his sister. “This is your doing again, isn’t it?” he asked.
To his surprise, Shailiha seemed as shocked as he. She shook her head.
“I knew she wanted to dance with you tonight,” she said, “but not this badly.” She smiled again. “Your duty is clear. One thousand kisa will go far for the orphanage. Besides, she’s right about one thing,” she added softly.
Tristan raised an eyebrow. “What is that?” he asked.
“She can afford it,” the princess answered with a smile.
As the bidding for other men continued, Tyranny walked to the dais. Smiling, she curtsied, then reached one gloved hand out toward Tristan.
“Shall we?” she asked.
For several moments Tristan simply stared at her. He had never seen Tyranny so lovely. Even though he suspected that her dress belonged to Shailiha, the privateer seemed to be a totally different woman. The only reminders of her piratical nature were her familiar gold hoop earrings. Relieved to have been rescued from the unappealing matron, he smiled.
“By all means,” he said. He took her hand and placed his other one behind his back as he escorted her to the center of the floor.
Bowing respectfully, the crowd quickly gave way for the stunning couple. As Tristan took Tyranny in his arms she beamed back at him. Leaning in, he placed his mouth near her ear.
“I certainly hope this will be worth one thousand kisa,” he whispered.
A gentler look suddenly overcame Tyranny’s face. “Of that I have no doubt, my liege,” she answered softly.
With the auction concluded, the conductor was again standing before the musicians. Tristan looked his way.
“A waltz, if you please,” the prince suggested. With a nod from the conductor, the musicians started playing.
Even though he cared little for dancing, Tristan had always been good at it. As he led Tyranny around the floor, he was surprised to find her his equal, if not better. She followed every command effortlessly, gracefully. According to custom, the other dancers let the dashing couple command the entire floor. After two graceful turns, Tristan gave the signal for the others to join in. Soon the floor was alive with elegant dancers, and the lovely waltz was carrying them all away.
Her mask in one hand behind Tristan’s shoulder, Tyranny looked the prince in the eyes. Tristan smiled.
“I had no idea you were such a wonderful dancer,” he said. Turning with the music, he led them toward a spot that would yield a bit more room. Tyranny followed his every motion like they were one.
“Where did you learn?” he asked.
“From my parents,” she answered. “They were marvelous dancers. I wish you could have seen them together!” Showing her lovely neck, she threw her head back and laughed. “I might be mostly seagoing wildcat, but that doesn’t mean I’m completely ignorant of social graces,” she said coyly.
Sending her whirling, Tristan brought her to her toes, then wheeled her around again. As he did, he realized that for the first time in a long while he was starting to enjoy himself.
“By the way, is Scars here?” he asked. Tristan suspected that even tonight her giant first mate would be near his captain.
“Yes,” she answered, “he’s here somewhere.” Then her infectious laugh came again. “But you know, although I’ve known him forever, I can’t tell you whether he can dance. I love him like a brother-you know that. Even so, I don’t imagine that Scars’ dancing would be a pretty picture, do you? I pity the poor girl he might hold too tightly! And may the Afterlife forbid him stepping on her feet!”
For the first time in months, Tristan laughed out loud. It felt good-as if the dense fog surrounding his heart was finally starting to lift.
“Yes!” he said, amid his own laughter. “I suppose you’re right!”
Tristan took a moment to look around. Then he smiled and laughed a bit more. Wheeling Tyranny leftward so that she could take a better look, he motioned with his chin. She also grinned at what she saw.
The two wizards had levitated themselves and their partners high into the air. At first the two women accompanying them seemed terrified. Realizing they had nothing to fear, they soon settled down. Then Wigg’s partner suddenly blushed, and she urgently whispered something into the wizard’s ear. After whispering back to her, Wigg smiled and he called a spell that effectively prevented the guests on the ballroom floor from sneaking looks under the ladies’ dresses.
Tristan realized that it was much like watching all four dancers slide and twirl atop an invisible glass floor that was suspended high in the air. Having left his chair behind, Faegan dutifully held his delighted partner in his arms as his useless legs dangled below him.
Waving one arm, Tristan caught Faegan’s eye, then winked. Understanding, the old wizard nodded. Tristan and Tyranny were promptly lifted into the air to join them. Soon all six were the center of attention.
Amazing, the prince thought as he looked into Tyranny’s delighted face. He had been right about the invisible floor. It provided just enough support to twirl Tyranny about, but also gave a feeling of being lighter than air.
Smiling, Tyranny leaned closer. “This is definitely worth one thousand kisa!” she exclaimed.
Smiling broadly, Tristan looked back down at the swirling dancers to notice the heavyset woman whom Tyranny had so easily outbid. With her arms crossed atop her plentiful breasts and her face beet red, she was fuming. Looking farther across the room, he saw young Brent. Despite his recent trauma, the boy seemed mesmerized by the spectacle. That gave the prince an idea.
He decided to ask the wizards to test Brent’s blood. Odds were that it would not be endowed. But if it was, and his mother consented, perhaps Wigg would consider allowing him to join the consuls’ sons being taught the craft in the Redoubt Nursery. It seemed the least they could do. After all, the boy had just lost his father.
Just then Tristan heard Brent scream, the young boy’s shrieked so loud that they easily rose above the music. As he stopped dancing, Tristan quickly looked around, but he could find nothing amiss.
Looking back at Tyranny, Tristan saw the blood drain from her face. She clearly understood-but he still hadn’t grasped it. He looked down again to see that the dancing had stopped. The orchestra slowly stilled, its final strains waning away into nothingness.
Tristan was about to demand an answer from Tyranny when Brent screamed again, then pointed to the variegated columns lining the room’s walls. As Tristan looked, the breath caught in his lungs. All the decorative ginger lily wound around the columns was dying before his eyes.
Tristan snapped his head around to look at a buffet table lying against the nearest wall. All the brightly colored flowers and decorative plants atop it were dying as well. Turning brown, their stems slowly slumped over in awkward death postures.
Then Tristan remembered what Brent had told the Conclave about his capture. Suddenly things became clear. Tristan frantically turned to look at Wigg.
From their vantage point high above the floor, the wizards urgently searched the room. But even they could detect no alien presence. The still-unknowing guests were happily murmuring among themselves as they wondered what was going on. “Another clever parlor trick by our wondrous wizards,” Tristan heard one man say. But Tristan knew that this was no illusion. The stakes had just become deadly serious.
Just then all six dancers were lowered to the floor, and Faegan returned to his chair. Faegan urgently shook his head, telling the prince that it had not been his or Wigg’s doing. Hearing Wigg cry out, Tristan looked back over to him.
To everyone’s horror, the Paragon was being lifted from around the First Wizard’s neck. Wigg quickly raised one hand to employ the craft. But try as he might, stopping the stone’s ascent was impossible-even for him. Faegan and Jessamay tried to help augment Wigg’s powers with their own, but to no avail.
Everyone could only watch as the Paragon glided to an empty spot above the checkerboard floor. Many gasped as the golden chain disappeared link by link, and was followed by the stone. The wizards looked aghast at the prince, who then cast his eyes back toward the dais. Those Conclave members still seated seemed as stunned as everyone else.
Drawing their swords, Traax, Ox, and several more male and female warriors started cautiously making for the floor’s center. Tristan raised one arm, ordering them to stop where they were.
An irregular, shimmering shape started to form in the air. It slowly grew until its outer edges were about two meters wide. Then the shimmering vanished to slowly show an intruder. As he materialized, Brent screamed again and ran to his mother.
A mounted figure had brazenly invaded the room. The intruder’s black stallion stood stock-still as white vapor streamed from its nostrils. The rider wore a soft black robe with its hood pulled up over his head. A black leather duster covered the robe and reached down past his saddle stirrups. He seemed to have no face, and the depths of his hood seemed limitless. Even the previously unsuspecting partyers had quieted as they realized that this dark being was not a welcome guest.
Tristan detected a slow movement by his side. Looking over, he saw Tyranny surreptitiously slip one hand beneath the folds of her gown. Understanding that she was reaching for a weapon, he locked his eyes on hers and shook his head.
Tristan started to approach the rider. In response, the intruder gently spurred his horse forward several steps. Tristan didn’t reach for the weapons lying across his back. His wary eyes went to the axe and shield that were tied to the being’s saddle. Despite the ominous circumstances, he found them magnificent. When Tristan looked into the rider’s face, he was shocked by what he saw.
The deep space inside the hood was dark as night-with two eerie exceptions. The being’s eyes glowed azure, as they stared back calmly. No skull held the orbs-they simply floated there in the hood’s dark recesses. Tristan had never seen anything like them. Then the being smiled, exposing his equally grotesque, glowing teeth. The effect was chilling.
Xanthus, Tristan thought.
Suddenly he heard Wigg’s familiar heel strikes, followed by the squeaky wheels of Faegan’s chair. Turning around, Tristan looked them both in the eyes and shook his head. They reluctantly stopped approaching.
When Tristan turned back to look at Xanthus, his blood ran cold. Xanthus was wearing the stolen vial around his neck.
Tristan could only hope that the stone was safely inside the pewter vial, and that the vial was filled with red water from the Caves of the Paragon. When the stone was removed from its human host, only the red, thick water could sustain its life-but not indefinitely. He forced himself to look back into the macabre eyes.
“Xanthus,” he said, trying to control his anger. He looked over at Brent, then back at the Darkling. “We got your message,” he added nastily.
“And also the branch and the scroll, I hope?” Xanthus asked. His voice was hollow, dead-sounding. Tristan nodded.
“Then you understand aboutK’Shari?”
“Yes.”
Xanthus nodded his approval. “Good-that simplifies my task.”
Tristan stood his ground, waiting.
“Then you also know why I have come,” Xanthus said.
“You have come for me,” the prince answered, “and you have stolen the Paragon. What I don’t know is why. And why did those innocent people in Charningham have to die? Surely they meant you no harm.”
Xanthus didn’t respond. His jaw set, Tristan arrogantly looked into Xanthus’ eerie eyes.
“Who sent you?” he asked softly.
The Darkling’s bizarre smile surfaced again. He spurred his horse another two steps closer, then leaned one arm down on his saddle pommel.
“My masters are the Heretics of the Guild,” he answered softly. “Unless I’m mistaken, you have heard of them. They request the pleasure of your company, Jin’Sai. ”
Tristan took a quick breath. He didn’t know why the Heretics had sent this abominable creature to him. But his heart told him that if he went with this being he would never return.
He turned to look at Shailiha. Her face was a mixture of fear and rage. She slowly shook her head, telling him not to go. Tristan looked back at Xanthus.
“Why do they want me?” he asked.
“All in good time,” Xanthus answered.
Wigg and Faegan approached to stand on either side of the prince. “Why have you taken the Paragon?” Wigg asked. His voice was shaking with rage. “Do you truly understand the significance of what lies around your neck?”
“Yes, wizard,” Xanthus answered. “I too can employ the craft.”
“And if theJin’Sai does not follow you?” Faegan asked.
“Then I will commit even greater atrocities,” he said, “making those in Charningham seem like mere child’s play. TheJin’Sai will accompany me. I could take him by force, but the Heretics have willed it otherwise. Unless he accompanies me this night, the horrors will grow. As a start, killing the revelers in this room will do nicely. Make no mistake, wizards-my gifts are of the Heretics. No one on the Tolenkas’ eastern side has the power to stop me. Trying to do so would only result in your deaths, and the deaths of many others. Is that what you want?” Xanthus paused for a moment.
“There is something else you have failed to consider,” he added softly.
“And that is?” Faegan asked.
“I possess the stone. I can vanish, cloaking my blood so well that your modest gifts will never find me. If I leave here without theJin’Sai, not only will the atrocities recommence, but whatever hope you might have of recovering the Paragon will vanish with me. You see, I am to take theJin’Sai to a place that your simple minds would find unimaginable. Allow theJin’Sai to accompany me, and you might see your prince and your precious Paragon again. Do not, and the Heretics won’t be so generous with their mercy.”
Faegan wheeled his chair a bit closer. “What guarantee do we have that you’ll keep your word?” he demanded.
Like he was lecturing some dullard schoolboy, Xanthus shook his head. “Fools,” he said. “I have given no word to keep.”
“Is it true that you have attainedK’Shari?” Tristan asked. “Before I believe you I want a demonstration of your presumed gift. But I demand that you leave the guests alone. They have done you no harm.”
“If you insist,” the Darkling said.
Xanthus pointed to the battle axe tied to his saddle. The leather straps securing it untied themselves. He opened his palm, and the axe flew into his hand. He looked back at the prince.
“My ears hear no begging,” he said. “My eyes see no pain. My heart feels no remorse.” Then his glowing eyes bored straight into Tristan’s. “The bluish green one, I think,” he said.
Without taking his gaze from Tristan, Xanthus launched his axe into the air. Suddenly realizing his mistake, Tristan could do nothing but watch.
The axe caught a blue-and-green flier in midflight, slicing its body in two as though it had been tissue paper. The axe flew on, its blade crashing into a marble column lining one wall, its impact so great that it nearly cracked the gigantic support in half. For a moment Tristan wondered whether the massive column might give way. Stunned by what they had just seen, guests scurried away from it.
Its wings still beating pitifully, what remained of the flier tumbled to the floor. Faegan cried out; Shailiha screamed. As the broken butterfly convulsed, violet blood ran from her severed innards. Then her two halves stopped moving and died. The Great Hall became quiet as a tomb.
Again without looking up, Xanthus raised one hand. The axe hauntingly levered free from the cracked column and flew back to him. Xanthus calmly caught it in his palm. Violet flier blood ran down the axe’s handle, onto his hand.
“You bastard!” Faegan screamed. His eyes were bulging, and his face was red. He wheeled his chair closer. “How dare you! Why did it have to be a flier? Are you insane?”
His mind raging past rational thought, Faegan pushed his chair closer yet. The old wizard loved the fliers with all his heart. Now one had died unnecessarily at the hands of some endowed madman. For that Xanthus would pay.
“A moving target is the only true test of my skill,” Xanthus answered casually. “Cutting something in half as it travels through the air commands a certain degree of respect.” He looked back at the prince. “Youunderstand, don’t you, Jin’Sai?”
Faegan had reached the breaking point, and he impulsively raised his arms. Twin azure bolts left his hands to go screaming across the room toward Xanthus. Tristan felt the bolts’ searing heat as they narrowly missed him and continued on toward their target.
The twin strikes passed harmlessly through Xanthus’ body. Tristan watched in horror as they continued, unfettered.
Before the unsuspecting guests at the hall’s rear could react, Faegan’s bolts tore into them and they were blown off their feet, their bodies literally torn to shreds. Five died instantly. Many nearby cried out in agony from scalding burns. Other guests started to scream; some fainted away. Blood trails crawled their way across the black-and-white checkerboard floor.
Some guests instinctively tried to flee the room, but they found that the doors wouldn’t open. Tristan could only imagine that the Darkling had used the craft to lock them. Alarmed by the strange noises coming from the Great Hall, Minion sentries on the doors’ opposite sides called out in concern and started pounding on them. But Tristan understood that it didn’t matter how many warriors might barge into the room. If they threatened Xanthus, he would kill them all.
Without warning, the Darkling raised a skeletal hand. An azure bolt streaked from his palm to go flying straight toward Faegan.
The crippled wizard raised his arms in a try to ward it off, but he was too late. Xanthus’ bolt blew Faegan’s chair apart, throwing the wizard three meters into the air. Thrown rearward, Faegan crashed hard against Tristan’s empty chair, then finally landed atop the dais floor and didn’t move.
Wigg ran across the floor to his friend. Wasting no time, Jessamay, Abbey, Adrian, and Duvessa all hurried to the room’s other end, to see what might be done for the wounded guests.
His rage nearly overtaking him, Tristan glared angrily at the monster seated atop the black horse. He desperately wanted to go for his throwing knives, but he knew better than to try. Many surviving guests were cowering in the room’s corners. The air was smoky from Xanthus’ and Faegan’s bolts, and its charred scent harassed his senses. Pieces of Faegan’s chair lay scattered across the floor, some of them lying in pools of blood.
Looking up, Tristan saw that the remaining fliers had attached themselves to the ceiling corners in an attempt to keep from harm. His jaw hardened as he saw the blood from the dead guests’ mangled bodies approaching his boots.
Tristan removed his mask and dropped it to the floor. He looked back at Xanthus. The Darkling slowly lowered his arm. His glowing eyes confident, he smiled again.
“It is time for us to leave, Jin’Sai, ” he said. “Unless you want to see more of these puny humans die.”
“Is the crippled wizard dead?” Tristan demanded.
“I don’t know,” Xanthus answered. “Nor do I care. Your welfare is my only concern.”
Tristan looked back at Wigg. The First Wizard paused in his examination of Faegan to look at the prince and gravely shook his head.
“Give me a moment to consult with my Conclave,” he demanded.
“Very well,” Xanthus answered. “I grant you five of your world’s minutes.”
Taking Tyranny by the hand, Tristan walked her to the dais. Wigg was kneeling over Faegan’s body. The First Wizard’s eyes were closed. His ten fingertips lay on either side of Faegan’s head. The lower half of Faegan’s robe was burned away, showing his hideously mangled legs.
Everyone knew better than to speak during Wigg’s examination, so they stayed silent. Finally Wigg removed his fingers from Faegan’s skull and opened his eyes. Desperately anxious for an answer, the others huddled nearer.
Tristan looked frantically into the First Wizard’s eyes. “Is he-”
“No,” Wigg whispered, hoping that Xanthus wouldn’t hear him. “Faegan lives, but barely. Xanthus’ bolt struck Faegan’s chair, but part of the bolt’s energy was transferred to Faegan’s body. His brain and nervous system are severely shocked, and his heartbeat is wildly irregular. If I can get him to the Redoubt, Jessamay and I might be able to save him. If not, he will die.”
Tristan turned to glare at Xanthus, then looked back at Wigg. “Something doesn’t make sense,” he said.
“What is that?” Shailiha asked.
“It’s obvious that Xanthus has attainedK’Shari, ” Tristan answered. “It is said that those possessing that discipline never miss. And yet, his bolt struck Faegan’s chair, so-”
“Xanthus never intended to kill him,” Tyranny interrupted. “But if he really was sent here by the Heretics, why didn’t they order him to destroy us all, right here and now?”
Tristan shook his head. “I don’t know,” he whispered back. “There is far more to this than meets the eye. If Xanthus or the Heretics wanted me dead, I would be.” He looked into Shailiha’s face.
“It seems that there is only one way to find out,” he added gravely.
Shailiha vehemently shook her head. “No!” she exclaimed. “You mustn’t! I won’t let you! No one knows what that monstrosity has planned for you!”
“The princess is right, my lord!” Traax insisted. “There are at least one hundred male and female warriors in this room, most still carrying their dreggans! With one word from you, they will all attack Xanthus at once!”
Tristan shook his head. “Don’t you see?” he asked. “If Faegan’s bolts couldn’t harm him, then how could a dreggan do so? Besides, if he is attacked he might vanish, and we could lose the Paragon forever. No, my friend-he would only kill more of us in the process. There has already been too much death.”
Tristan looked back at Wigg. “I’m right, aren’t I?” he asked.
Wigg sadly closed his eyes, then opened them again. When he did they were shiny with tears.
“Yes,” he answered. “No matter how many of us attack, I fear we cannot defeat this creature. If his gifts truly are of the Heretics, we would be foolish to try. Even combining my gifts with Jessamay’s and Adrian’s would likely do little good. Despite how much I fear for you, I can see no other course but to let you go.”
“Then I shall,” Tristan said. “I know that I might never return. Either way, these are my orders: First, Shailiha is now the Conclave leader and reigning sovereign. She is also lord of the Minions. Her word is law. Respect her orders as you would my own. Second, speed your plans to attack the Citadel. If it is at all possible, take Serena alive, and capture the Scroll of the Vagaries. It is my belief that Wulfgar’s widow has much to do with this.”
“Your time is up, Jin’Sai!” Xanthus suddenly cried out. “Must more people die because of your indecisiveness?”
Tristan turned to gaze into the monster’s glowing eyes. “Harm no one else!” he shouted. “I will go with you!”
Xanthus grinned, his teeth showing grotesquely in the hood’s recesses.
Reaching out, Shailiha took her twin brother into her arms. She held him close, like she was never going to let go. She placed her mouth to his ear.
“I will find you,” she whispered, her voice cracking, “just as you once had to find me. I swear it.”
“No!” he whispered back. “Promise me that you will attack the Citadel!” Nodding sadly, she finally released him.
Knowing there was little left to say, Tristan nodded at Wigg. Wigg swallowed hard, then nodded back.
Just as Tristan turned to go, Tyranny stepped nearer. She pulled him to her, then kissed him hard on the mouth. She slowly let him go. For the first time since meeting her, he could see that she was shaking.
Rather than seeming surprised, Tristan smiled gently. “I know,” he said quietly. “I always have.”
Stepping off the dais, he walked to where Xanthus sat astride his mount. He looked again into the dark hood.
“I demand to keep my weapons,” he said.
“Granted,” Xanthus answered. “As you have no doubt surmised, you cannot harm me with them.”
Tristan watched in dread as Xanthus raised a bony, glowing hand. Wondering whether the being was about to cause yet more mayhem and death, he held his breath. The answer surprised him. Another shimmering shape started to appear. It slowly coalesced to take a familiar form.
Shadow, Tristan’s black stallion, soon stood where the shimmering had once been. A recent gift from the Minion warriors of Parthalon, the horse danced about a bit as he took in his new surroundings. Shadow was wearing the shiny black tack the warriors had also given the prince. Tristan walked over, grasped the bridle, and rubbed the stallion’s face. Shadow slowly calmed.
After gazing around the disheveled room, Tristan threw himself up into the saddle. As he wheeled Shadow around, the stallion’s iron shoes clip-clopped on the marble floor. Tristan took a last look at the Conclave members, then walked Shadow up alongside Xanthus’ horse.
“It is time, Jin’Sai, ” Xanthus said. In a voice that was almost kind, he added, “We travel to a place beyond description. Obey my every word, and many of your long-held questions will be answered.”
Side by side, Tristan and Xanthus walked their horses toward the rear of the Great Hall. With every step they took, what living foliage still adorned the room withered, then died.
As they neared the far wall, both riders disappeared.